


The Last of Us

by VampieOreo



Category: Supernatural, The Last of Us
Genre: Action/Adventure, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Zombies, Angst, Based on a video game, Codependency, Eventual Smut, F/M, First Time, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Psychological Trauma, Sibling Incest, Slow Build, Violence, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-08-18 23:03:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 63,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8179106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VampieOreo/pseuds/VampieOreo
Summary: Dean Winchester is a smuggler working out of Boston. The apocalypse wasn't easy on anyone, and Dean hasn't escaped tragedy. He's lost his brother and his father, he's done things he can't ever take back, burned nearly every bridge he's ever made.When he's tasked with smuggling a boy who's immune to the infection, everything changes. This is an adventure, a horror story, a tragedy, a romance. This is a story of two boys struggling to hold onto hope in a world where life seems only an exercise in futility.It can't be for nothing.**This story partially follows the plot of The Last of Us, but no knowledge of the game is necessary.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is not my first fiction, but the first that I've posted in over five years. I've taken a long break from the fanfic community but I'm ready to start posting again. This story is for Halloween. I've been working on it for a while, building the world and the characters, but I realized I'm pouring a lot of effort into a fic that might get little attention.
> 
> The early chapters follow the game script but it becomes it's own story. As a note, the boys ages have been changed necessarily for the plot. Dean is about ten years older than Sam.
> 
> That said, let's begin.

Prologue

**January 24 th, 2005**

 

 

“— _Happy birthday, dear De-an,”_ John Winchester sings as he sets down a shiny apple pie at the scuffed dinner table. Dean Winchester grins, adult teeth still a little too big for his face and freckles thrown into stark relief by the candle shaped like the number thirteen set in the middle.

“ _Happy birthday to you!”_ Little Sammy Winchester joins in, clapping his hands.

“ _And many mo-ore!”_ His Dad finishes, completely off key but with a big grin on his face.

Sammy sits right next to Dean, almost three years old now and sharper than any tack. He's too small for the chairs, has to sit on his knees to see over the table. He has a big, baby-teeth grin while he watches.

“Sorry it's not a cake,” Dad says, looking a little nervous. “Was a little tight on funds… but grandma Rosie from next door made this for you.”

“It's great, Dad,” Dean assures. Grandma Rosie is a nice lady; she babysits Sammy when Dean's at school and always sneaks them both little candies when Dad's not looking.

Dad's smile changes, loses the nervous edge and just looks fond. He comes around to the other side of the table, pulling out a chair and sitting. “Make a wish,” Dad says and Dean's smile wavers.

It's his second birthday since his mother died in the fire that burnt their home to the ground, but the first they've celebrated since. Things have been rough for them. They've been moving around every few months, and Dad struggles to hold down a job. He drinks… a lot. This is the first time in a solid six months that they've sat down to have a meal together. Usually, Dad's out and Dean stays home to take care of baby Sammy. He knows what he'd wish for, if he could, but he doesn't think it's right to wish for his mom to be alive again. She's in heaven and wishing won't bring her back. He should spend his wish on something useful.

What Dean wants more than anything is more nights like these.

 _I wish we could be happy,_ he thinks and it's enough. He blows out the candle and Sammy giggles before leaning in and blowing too, trying to help.

“Sammy, don't get slobber all over your brother's pie!” Dad scolds, just gruff enough that it's clear he's not joking. Sammy's smile falls.

“No, it's okay,” Dean assures, one hand settling on his little brother's back, “That'll be his piece, right Sammy?”

Sammy smiles at him again, big eyes and tiny pink mouth and that messy, blond mop of hair. He's growing so fast; Dean remembers long nights of bottle feeding and burping and rocking trying to get little Sammy to sleep. Soon he's gonna be a little kid, gonna start school and blow the rest of those kindergartners out of the water. Sam's not even three and he's been talking since he was nine months old, full sentences since fifteen. He already knows the alphabet, knows his colors, and his numbers up to thirty even if he sometimes gets them in the wrong order. Dean smiles back at him.

Dad cuts the pie and serves it up on paper plates; it's still warm. Dean helps Sammy eat his 'cause he's a little messy with food but he huffs each time, “I can do it, bubba.”

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean rolls his eyes, knows better than to argue, “I know.” He still helps and Sammy just lets him.

Dad is smiling at their antics, eyes warm and watery as he watches them. The pie is good; tart, cinnamon-y apples and flaky, sugared crust. They don't have ice cream to go with it but Dean thinks it's pretty awesome. He'll probably mow Grandma Rosie's lawn again as a thank you.

“What did you wish for, bubba?” Sammy asks just before Dean helps him spoon some pie into his mouth. He looks like a chipmunk when he chews like that.

“Can't tell you,” Dean says. “Everybody knows if you say your wish out loud, it won't come true.”

Sam frowns, cheeks still puffed out around the pastry but nods.

“Oh, almost forgot,” Dad says reaching into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulling out a small package wrapped in newspaper. “Sammy and I picked this out for you.”

Dean's eyebrows go up in disbelief. Sammy and Dad don't spend a lot of time together, especially not without Dean present. Dad dips his head knowing he's been caught out. “Alright, so last time we visited Uncle Bobby, Sammy grabbed this from a shelf and all three of us agreed you should have it.”

Dean turns his eyes to his little brother to see if this is true and Sam just grins wickedly at him, like he's smug they managed to keep a secret.

“That true, Sammy? You wanna give me this?” Dean asks pointing at the present on the table.

“Yeah. It's pretty,” Sammy tells him. “An' Uncle Bobby says it's magic.”

Dean's starting to think they got him a My Little Pony sticker or something. He's still gonna wear it, screw what the other seventh graders will say.

Dad goes to push the present towards Dean but Sammy shouts, “No! I wanna give it to him!”

Dean and his father share a conspiratorial look of mutual amusement before Dad pushes the present towards Sammy. Sammy stands in his chair and picks it up from the table with a self-satisfied smile. He holds it out to Dean with both hands. “Happy birthday, Bubba.”

Dean takes the gift and says, “Thanks, squirt.”

Sammy giggles and leans in close as Dean's peeling back the paper. Underneath the newspaper is some tissue paper and inside that there's a thick leather cord. Dean pulls it out and finds that there's a golden charm hanging at the end of it. His brow furrows as he examines it, having never seen anything like it before. Uncle Bobby always did have a bunch of weird stuff at his house. It's a two sided face with horns and it looks like something out of a video game or a horror movie. Dean is instantly enamored.

“Wow,” He whispers in genuine awe, before closing his fist around the charm and feeling it warm against his skin. “Thank you.”

Sammy and Dad could light the town with their smiles. Dad stands then, gently taking the necklace and putting it over Dean's head before pressing a kiss to his crown, “Happy birthday, baby boy.” Dad smells like leather and metal, oil and Old Spice.

Dean's not a baby anymore, but that's okay. It's been a while since his dad treated him like this. It's usually all _'do your homework,' 'clean the house,' 'be responsible,' 'take care of Sammy.'_ Dean can appreciate one night of feeling a little younger than his years.

Dad ruffles his hair when he pulls away, quickly extinguishing all the warm, fuzzy feelings as Dean groans and tries to comb it back down with his fingers. Dad just chuckles even while Dean shoots him a half-serious glare.

“ 'M gonna clean this up,” Dad says lifting the half finished pie from the table. “Finish up your pie, boys. It's almost bed time.”

When Dad is in the kitchen, Sammy visibly relaxes a little more. He loves their father too, but Dad can be a mean drunk and Sammy's a cautious toddler. He doesn't talk half as much when Dad's around.

“You really like it, bubba?” He asks softly, leaning in even closer to softly touch the charm where it hangs at Dean's diaphragm.

“I love it, Sammy,” Dean says before pulling his brother in to kiss his forehead too. Sammy smells like little boy, like warm skin and talcum and apples.

“Love you,” Sammy tells him before kissing Dean's cheek. It's wet and sticky from apple pie and Dean laughs before using the sleeve of his flannel to wipe his face.

“Yeah, love you too, little brother.”

 

Xx--xX

 

Dean wakes up to the sound of the phone ringing. It's late and dark. Sammy is snuggled up to his side in their twin bed and sleeping soundly. It's a cold night but muggy-warm underneath the covers with Sammy pressed so close. Their skin is clammy enough to stick where they're touching and Sammy's hair is a little damp from sweat. Dean snuggles closer and waits for Dad to get the phone.

Minutes pass and the phone keeps ringing. That's weird; Dad should've answered it by now. It rings twice more then stops.

Dean tiredly closes his eyes again. They'll call back tomorrow.

The phone starts ringing again and Dean groans. Two calls back to back this late? That means it's Dad; which means after they went to bed, Dad snuck out to a bar. God damn it, could he not go one freakin' night without drinking?

Dean huffs in annoyance as he carefully crawls out of bed over Sammy. The little boy grumbles and pushes him away, not wanting to be woken, before nuzzling further into the warm spot Dean left behind. Dean makes sure Sam's still tucked in before going to the kitchen where the phone is. The house they're renting right now is small and old fashioned, the landline on the wall with a long, curly cord.

“Hello?” Dean answers with an unhappy sigh.

“ _Dean,”_ It's his dad's voice. He says his name roughly.

“Yeah?”

“ _Dean, I need you to listen to me very carefully.”_ He doesn't sound drunk, he sounds scared.

The grogginess starts to lift and Dean frowns. “What's wrong? Something happe—”

“ _Just listen!”_ His dad near shouts, _“Grab my gun—you know where it is—and as many bullets as you can carry. Pack a bag, light, leave anything we don't need.”_

This isn't the first time they've left a town in a hurry. Dad has gotten in trouble with the wrong sorts before, but Dean's never heard him like this.

“What about Sammy?” Dean asks worriedly, wide awake now. “We're leaving right away?”

“ _I'll be there in less than ten minutes and I need you both ready to drive away when I get there. This is an_ _ **emergency**_ _, Dean.”_ Dad doesn't sound scared. Dad sounds terrified.

Dean's never heard his father sound like this. Not when their house burned down, not when those loan sharks kicked in their door, not when Sammy fell while playing too hard and got a cut on the side of his head. Blond hair going sticky red is still an image that shows up in Dean's nightmares.

“Yes, sir,” Dean says, feeling like his whole body is vibrating from the sudden adrenaline rush.

Dad doesn't say anything else, just hangs up and Dean rushes into action. First things first—

“Sammy!” Dean says shaking the toddler, “Sammy, wake up!”

“Bubba, wha—” Sammy moans, turning away and trying to burrow under the covers.

Dean swats his thigh hard enough to make Sammy yelp. “ _Now_ , Sammy,” Dean orders. “We're in trouble.”

Sammy sits up then, rubbing his eyes, “What trouble?”

Dean doesn't answer, already turned away to go through the milk crates that hold their clothes. He finds Sammy's warmest coat, sturdiest jeans, thickest socks, and best shoes. “Hold still,” Dean says as he dresses him and Sammy does exactly as he's told. Dean puts Sammy's clothes on directly over his pajamas, then dresses himself just as quick—leaves his _Metallica_ pajama shirt on and trades his cotton sweat pants for a good pair of jeans.

“Bubba, what's going on?” Sammy demands while Dean's dressing.

“We're leaving, Dad's in trouble and we gotta hurry,” Dean says, the only words he can think of to explain as he hurriedly laces up his converse. He puts on a heavy gray flannel and jacket over top, puts his new necklace over his head and the amulet hits his chest with a thump. When he looks over at the bed, he sees Sammy is watching him with wide eyes.

“Sammy, I need you to get my big backpack out of the closet and empty it out on the floor, okay? Take everything out of it 'til it's empty, and it's okay to make a mess,” Dean says as he picks his brother up off the rumpled covers and sets him on his feet. “Just hurry, okay?”

Sam's face has paled and he nods quickly before hurrying over to the closet. Dean runs down the hall to his fathers room and grabs the guns. There's a pistol in his dad's bedside table and two rifles in the closet that they use for hunting. It's heavy but Dean straps both rifles to his back and checks the safety on the pistol before tucking it into the back of his jeans. He quickly strips Dad's pillow of its pillowcase and stuffs all the boxes of ammo that he can into it. He sees dad's hunting knife while he's digging for boxes of bullets and snags that too before heading back to the room he shares with Sammy.

On his way back, he can hear a car alarm going off outside, dogs barking. He stays away from the windows; Dad'll be here soon and he needs to have them ready.

When he turns the corner, his school backpack has been emptied out and Sam is standing next to it, waiting. Dean forces a smile as he kneels down—gotta keep Sammy calm—kisses his brother's cheek. “Good boy, Sammy,” He whispers. “Now go get the first aid kit from the bathroom. It's the red bag under the sink, okay?”

Sam nods, hugs him quick around the neck before taking off.

Dean decides to leave the ammo in the pillowcase for now. The Impala's still at the shop so Dad's coming in his truck and there's plenty of room, he should save the space in his backpack for other things. He puts the knife inside the backpack, then packs some more of Sammy's clothes, the plastic photo album with his few pictures of their family, his only picture of his mom in front of a house in Kansas, a flashlight and batteries. He decides he should pack like they're roughin' it in the forest, grabs his compass and mini-radio and shoves those in the bag too. As he makes to go to the kitchen, he meets Sam in the hallway carrying the first-aid kit. It's bigger than Sammy's torso and he waddles carrying it, his skinny arms wrapped all the way around.

“Good,” Dean nods, “Put it into the backpack okay, Sammy?” He says over his shoulder as he keeps going, hears is brother run into the room behind him.

In the kitchen, Dean pulls out some food, dry snacks and things they can eat if they'll be on the road for a long time. He fills a two-liter bottle with water and takes that too. He doesn't know what kind of emergency they're packing for, but anything they don't need he can throw out the car window when Dad explains more.

“Bubba,” Sammy says softly and Dean turns around, not expecting his brother to be in the kitchen. Sammy's dragged the open backpack with him, he's standing next to it, but he's not looking at Dean.

He's looking at their backdoor, old sliding glass in a squeaky metal frame that faces out to their wide, green backyard.

Sammy takes a couple steps back and Dean walks over to look out the door too. The back porch light is still on, dim yellow lighting up the night. It's Grandma Rosie. She's in her nightgown and her silvery-gold hair has rollers messily half-curled into it and hanging around her shoulders. There's blood on her flowered nightgown and she's barefoot. Dean's heart stops.

“Sammy,” He whispers, “Get behind me.”

Sammy is reluctant to move but when Dean touches his shoulder, he does get behind his leg, fingers curling into Dean's jeans.

Grandma Rosie isn't looking at them, not really. Her eyes are vacant but she walks into the door, presses her whole body up on the glass, breath misting against it. There's something wrong with her. When she does see them, probably past the glare on the glass, her face curls into a mean look and her old hands reach up and bang on the door. Grandma Rosie has arthritis, Dean's brain reminds him; he can see the way her knuckles are a little twisted but she's punching the glass like a drunk man in a bar fight.

“Bubba!” Sammy gasps tearily, “What's wrong with her?”

“I don' know, Sammy,” Dean whispers back. “We gotta go.”

Grandma Rosie is still banging away, her mouth opens like she wants to scream at them and her face is livid. Dean's never seen anyone look that angry. He quickly snags up the backpack, and backs away to the counter where he was laying out food. Sammy stays with him, clinging tighter and tighter to the back of Dean's leg. Dean shoves most of the food on top of the first-aid kit, then zips up the backpack tight. He doesn't know what else they could possibly need.

The clock on the microwave says Dad should be here soon. Dean's loaded down enough, the hunting rifles on his back, pistol in his belt, backpack in his hands, Sammy clinging to him. The pillowcase full of ammo is still in his room and he regrets leaving it, isn't sure he has time to grab it now.

“We're gonna go to the front door, okay Sammy?” Dean says. “Dad's waitin' out there for us.”

Sammy makes a sound like a sob and doesn't reply.

Grandma Rosie is getting angrier. She's not just banging her fists on the door anymore. She backs up and then runs at it, ramming her body into the glass, head and shoulders first. Blood bursts across her forehead and Sammy screams.

“Shh!” Dean tells him, “Quiet, Sammy.” Dean tries to sound commanding but his voice wavers as he slowly edges out of the kitchen.

Sammy on his leg is making him too slow. Grandma Rosie slams into the glass again and again, her face gushing blood, nose streaming red. When Dean's half way into the living room, he thinks he hears something like a crack.

“Bubba!” Sammy sobs, “Bubba help!”

Dean can't say anything, the cracking sound has him frozen in his sneakers. Rifles over his shoulder, pistol in his jeans, but he just stands there. He can't move a muscle.

When Grandma Rosie slams into the glass again, it shatters and Sammy's scream pierces the night like an alarm. Dean finds his motor control again, swiftly bends to grab his little brother up in his arms, dropping the backpack to the floor. He tries to run for the front door but a hand on the back of his jacket stops him short.

“Get off! Get off!” Dean shouts mindlessly, skinny legs still struggling to propel him forward.

A deafening boom shakes the room and the hand on the back of his jacket falls away. Dean falls to his knees from his forward momentum, Sammy still held tight in his arms. He looks over his shoulder and sees Dad, standing there with a revolver in his hand and blood splashed on his shirt. Dad's eyes look just as shocked as Sammy's, as blank as Grandma Rosie's wide-open, dead stare.

Half her head is in the kitchen while the rest of her is here and Dean can't… doesn't understand what he's seeing.

“Dean,” Dad demands, walking up to him and bending to shake his shoulders, “Snap out of it.”

Dean stares up at his father, squeezes the quivering toddler in his arms so tight it might hurt but he can't feel anything.

“Is everything in here?” Dad asks picking up the backpack.

“I—” Dean starts, eyes flicking down to Grandma Rosie again. There's a half-eaten pie in the fridge. So much blood on the floor, never gonna get it out of the carpet. “Rosie—”

“Is everything in here!” his dad shouts in his face, shaking the backpack and Dean blinks, feels like time is stretching and he can finally take in a breath again.

“Yeah,” He nods, voice sounding airy and far away, “ 'Cept ammo, in a pillowcase in my room.”

“Okay,” Dad nods. He grabs the back of Dean's head and drags him close, kisses his forehead. Twice in one day after not at all for months. Dean suddenly becomes aware that the back of his head is slightly wet. When his Dad pulls away, his hand is red.

Dad pries one of Dean's clawed hands away from Sammy's thick winter coat and puts the car keys in it.

“Go put your brother in the truck and start it up, Dean,” Dad orders and Dean latches on to the words.

“Yessir,” he nods. He can do that.

Sammy's nails are digging into the back of Dean's shoulders, his little arms wrapped so tight around him that Dean thinks he could let go and Sammy would still be secure against his chest. He calls Sammy his little monkey, sometimes.

He quickly runs out the front door, rifles jumping and rattling against his back, heavy enough to make his bones hurt. Outside Dean can see the other houses in this modest, little suburb. He can see lights in some of them, he can see shadows running through the windows, and he can hear shouting. Over the houses, in the distance, he can see the city and it's lit up bright, helicopters in the air and spotlights moving through the dark. As he's opening the door to tuck Sammy into his carseat there's a boom that shakes the Earth and even the truck rocks on its wheels. He and Sammy both turn to look and, distantly over the hills, they see the huge plume of red-orange-black flame floating up by the skyscrapers of downtown. When Dean turns back to the task at hand, he can still see the fire reflected in Sammy's eyes and it feels like his heart is trying to jump out of his chest.

Dean hates fire. He hates it so much.

“Sammy, please,” Dean says as he struggles to make the little boy let go so he can strap him in.

“Bubba no,” Sammy cries softly, sounds so sad, so scared. “Bubba please don't leave me.”

“Sh-sh-hhh,” Dean's voice cracks as he tries to shush him, feels tears in his eyes. “ 'T's okay, baby boy. Not leaving you. Not ever.”

Sammy keeps sorrowfully pleading, “No, no, bubba, please,” Over and over again as Dean pries his little hands off. Sammy is in full sobs when his arms aren't around Dean anymore and he wriggles like a wild animal trying to get back. Dean has to put a hand in the middle of his chest and press hard to get Sammy to sit back so he can fasten the straps of the carseat. Sammy struggles the whole time, keeps pulling at the straps even when he's secured. The time it takes to close that door and run around to the driver's seat feels like an eternity and Sammy's muffled screaming echoes in Dean's head.

He's just turned the key, just got the engine to roar to life when Dean feels big hands under his arms, pulling him out of the car. He turns with his fist curled for a punch but finds his Dad. The man throws the backpack into the passenger seat, it's overstuffed now, the cream colored linen of the pillowcase peaking out of one side of the zipper.

“In the back with your brother,” Dad pushes him and Dean nods, quickly opening the other door and getting in. Sammy's already reaching out to him, face ruddy pink with tears and hands grabbing at the air. Dean scoots over to the middle, keeps close to the carseat and lets Sammy cling to him.

The doors are closed and locked and Dad drives like the devil is on their tail.

“Pass me one of those rifles,” Dad says, hand reaching into the backseat. Dean pulls the carrying strap over his head and puts the gun in his father's strong hand. They're gonna be okay. Dad can get through anything. Dad can beat anybody. He's tougher than anybody Dean knows, the toughest guy around.

Sammy won't stop crying.

Dean tries to soothe him, rubs his hand through Sammy's blond hair—too thick, tangled so easy, hates when Dean has to comb it—whispering soft, reassuring words. Dad hasn't said anything yet, but Dean knows he needs to get Sammy to calm down.

“Come on, Sammy,” Dean says in frustration after a couple minutes. “We're going on a trip, okay? What's your favorite road song?”

Sammy likes the Beatles, like mom did. _Hey Jude_ is Dean's favorite but Sammy's is _Here Comes the Sun._

So Dean starts to sing, because he can do that, even if he can't do much else. Even if Grandma Rosie's head is five feet away from her body and there's a pie in the fridge that no one will finish.

“ _Here comes the sun, do-do-do,”_ Dean says, reaches up with his other hand to wipe the tears from Sammy's plump cheek and feels his mouth dry when he sees that his own hand leaves a streak of rusty red behind. From touching his back, when he passed the rifle, because his back is covered in blood. It's sticky.

He uses his sleeve to wipe it away.

“ _Here comes the su-_ _u_ _n, and I-I say, it's alright,”_ Dean sings.

He's leaned almost all the way over Sammy to keep hugging him tight, feels the little wet face pressed into his neck. Dean can see out the window, watches as the neighborhood flashes by. They haven't even been here a full three months, only just settled in. There's a woman being beat up by three people right on her lawn, Dean thinks it's Mrs. Brown, thinks one of the people beating her up is Rodney Brown, her son.

“ _Little_ _d_ _arlin', it's been a long cold lonely winter,”_ Dean sings, even as dad turns on the radio and the news pours out; riots in the streets, gas leak, explosion, quarantine, military, something, something. Dad curses and turns it off.

One of the houses they drive by is on fire and Dean clings to Sammy as hard as Sammy is clinging to him. _“Little_ _d_ _arlin',”_ Dean's voice is breaking. He pauses, tries to catch his breath but is surprised to hear Dad chime in.

“ _It feels like years since it's been here,”_ He sings, voice off-key as usual, but really trying.

Dean wipes his face, pretends it's not wet, takes a breath and keeps going. Dad singing along with him, _“Here comes the sun, do-do-do. Here comes the sun and I-I say,”_

“ _It's alright,”_ Sammy breathes with them, all three singing now and Sammy's not sobbing anymore. He's still shaking, still hitching breaths and letting the tears run free, but he's quiet.

Dean keeps singing, keeps stroking his clean fingers through Sam's hair as he watches house after house pass by. There's sirens, ambulances and cop cars racing by them. People are running, people are packing their cars, people are fighting. Dean sees neighborhood kids he knows, sees their parents, sees the house of Alyssa Munoz, the girl he kissed during truth-or-dare, with it's door kicked in and a car smashed through the garage.

Dad slams on the breaks and Dean goes flying. He didn't put on his seatbelt and he smacks into the back of the front seat hard enough to shake his teeth.

“Bubba!”

“Shit!” Dad hisses, “God damn it, Dean. You okay?”

“Fine!” Dean answers, because he is. It more shocked him than hurt him; he's left knelt in the footwell. Sammy's calm now, staring at him with big eyes. “What happened?” Dean asks.

Dean turns, hooking an elbow over the front seat to see what made them stop and sees that Dad was heading for the highway out of town and further up into the hills. It's packed, cars as far as the eye can see with their brake lights blazing red.

“Looks like everyone had the same idea,” Dad says, scrapes a hand over his face.

“Can we—are we gonna backtrack?” Dean asks.

“Just put your God damned seatbelt on,” Dad orders and Dean obeys, sitting back down beside Sammy. The boy seems fine as long as he can keep his hands on Dean. He's holding one of Dean's hands with both of his, looking around now, looking out the windows.

“No, Sammy, look at me,” Dean says. Sammy doesn't need to see what's out there.

“Where are we going?” Sammy asks.

“Shhh,” Dean hushes, “Just keep your eyes on me. Dad's gonna take us some place safe.”

“Can we keep singing?” Sammy asks and Dean nods, picks up where he left off.

“ _Little darlin_ _'_ _, I feel that ice is slo-_ _o_ _wly melting,_ ” Dean keeps going, even though Dad has stopped singing.

“Shit, shit, shit…” Dad is muttering, “Fuck!” he shouts and Sammy jumps. There's a scream outside, a crash, Dean doesn't look. Keeps his eyes on Sammy so that Sammy will keep his eyes on him. Dad will handle it, Dad will keep them safe.

“ _Little darlin', it seems like years since it's been clear,_ ” Dean sings louder, over the sound of the engine revving as Dad kicks it into reverse and swings the truck around off the highway; they bounce as he drives over the uneven ground before the wheels hit pavement again, towards the little town center of this suburb. Dean knows it like the back of his hand by now; he's explored their neighborhood after school. There's a gas station, a grocery store, an average library, a small playground, and some businesses. Maybe three or four square blocks put together; the rest of this area is just houses and farm land.

Dad drives them through the streets and there are people running everywhere. Dad has to slow down a lot to get around them. An old man with a bloody face bangs on Dean's window, startling him enough that he looks away from his brother.

“Help me! Please, help me!” he begs with a tremulous voice but the doors stay locked and Dad keeps driving. A smear of red is left on the glass.

The road is blocked ahead, a motorhome tipped over in the street. Sammy tugs on Dean's fingers and he tries to clear his head, keeps singing, but his eyes are trained out the windshield. He can't even blink, he's just staring, taking in the chaos and feeling like this must be a dream.

“ _Here comes the sun, do-do-do.”_

Dad drives on the sidewalk, the truck bouncing hard as he maneuvers around the flipped motorhome. Can barely hear the sound of his own voice over all the commotion.

“ _Here comes the su_ _-u_ _n and I-I say_ —”

Bright lights on his left and then— _**SCREECH, BANG, CRUNCH, CRASH!** _

Black.

 

Xx--xX

 

Dean wakes up to little hands hitting his face, his ears are buzzing like the crashing is still going on in his head. He blinks open his eyes and feels burning pain across his chest and side. He wiggles and is glad that nothing's broken. He broke his arm when he was nine and this isn't that.

“Bubba!” there's a cry next to him and but it sounds like it's underwater. Dean blinks again his vision slowly clearing. He's halfway upside down, hanging partially from his seatbelt and he can see out the windshield.

There's another car, it looks upside down from this angle, crashed into a lamppost and inside the driver is clawing away at the passenger. There's struggling and then there's not, but the clawing keeps going and the bright red splashes up over the glass.

Not a dream.

Gotta protect Sammy.

“Sammy,” Dean breathes, turns to look at his brother. There's blood on the carseat and Dean's heart hits his ankles. Sammy's crying hard, his whole body shakes with it, and reaching out towards Dean.

Dean feels wide awake again.

“Sammy, oh hell, hang on baby,” Dean says as he struggles with his seatbelt until he can get it to unclasp. He falls gracelessly towards the roof of the car but manages to catch himself in time to keep from getting too scratched up by all the broken glass.

He unstraps his brother from the carseat and pulls him out, holding him tight. Sammy's arms and legs wrap around him tight and the little boy is crying so hard he's not really making sound at all. Dean feels wetness under Sammy's coat, lifts it away and sees a slash through his pajamas. He tastes metal in his mouth like he's the one bleeding just from the sight of it. He touches and Sammy whimpers, squirming.

Dean ignores him, needs to see how serious it is. Dad taught him some first aid, since they used to go hunting and camping and fishing a lot. Sometimes they'd be too far away to call 911 and Dean had to know how to do certain things. He pushes the pajamas out of the way, cotton with little circus animals printed on it, and sees that the cut is superficial. It's pretty deep and it could bleed a lot, but it didn't puncture Sammy's chest and that's what matters. It's a long gash across his ribs, curving around his left side. There's a piece of jagged metal protruding from the door and Dean uses it to cut a long strip off the flannel shirt he's wearing beneath his jacket. He ties it around Sam's middle to keep pressure on the injury and hopefully stop it from bleeding too much.

“Dad!” He calls, looking over his shoulder at where his father is hanging by his own seatbelt, the airbags obscuring most of his body so Dean can't see if he's hurt. Dad hardly stirs.

Dean's kneeling, his knees hurt but the truck's cab is too small to stand in. He carefully sets Sammy on his feet, the boy latching onto Dean's side, before reaching out to smack his father hard across the face. “Dad! Wake up!” He screams, doesn't know what he'll do if Dad doesn't.

Luckily, the man groans and opens his eyes. It takes him a minute to come back to himself, to recognize all the same things Dean did.

“You okay, boy?” are the first words out of his father's mouth and Dean lets out a sound that might be a sob of relief.

“Yeah,” Dean sighs out, before sniffing hard and getting it together, “Yeah, Sammy's cut but we're okay. Dad we gotta go,” Dean tells him. He looks back at that other car, can't see inside it now since the windshield is covered in red from the inside but he hears glass breaking and he thinks the driver might be trying to get out.

He doesn't know what's going on but people are going crazy. People are hurting each other.

Dad unfastens his own seatbelt and struggles not to fall onto all the broken glass. The backpack is still there, the rifle too, both on the ceiling of the car. Dean's still got the other rifle strapped across his back and the pistol in his jeans.

“Cover your eyes,” Dad says and Dean turns to cover both his and Sammy's. He hears the crashing and grunting as Dad kicks the windshield out.

“Okay,” Dad wheezes. “Okay, Dean, we're gonna have to make a run for it.”

Dean nods, wide eyed but trusting. His dad knows what to do. He was in the Marines. He can get through anything.

Dad pulls the straps of the backpack over his broad shoulders and crawls out of the car onto the pavement. He stands then, reaches his hand back in and says, “Pass me the rifle.”

Dean has just grabbed it when his father screams.

“Dad!” “Daddy!” He and Sammy shout at the same time.

Dean sees his father hit the ground, one of those crazy people on top of him. It's a guy, young and half dressed in a suit—missing an arm of his jacket and his shirt is torn and speckled with red. He's snapping his teeth like a rabid dog, dripping from the mouth too. He's got his hands clawed and only Dad's grip on his arms is keeping the crazy guy from tearing into him right there.

“Dean!” Dad shouts. “The gun!”

But Dad's hands are busy; he can't hold a rifle. Dean remembers the pistol in his jeans, pulls it out with fumbling hands and shakily points it. He's shot one of these before. Dad's been taking him shooting for years, even back when Mom would frown about it.

He tries to say _'_ _get back,_ _'_ to give a warning like the cops do, but his throat is closed up tight. He's holding the pistol with both hands and Sammy is clinging to him so tight, face pressed against Dean's ribs. Dean breathes and squeezes the trigger. Once, twice, three times, less than three feet away from the man on top of his father. The recoil rocks Dean hard, makes his arms shake all the way up to his shoulders and numbs his hands.

The guy twitches and jerks, bleeding everywhere and it's not like the movies at all. Dad rises quickly, tossing the man off but he's still alive—still writhes on the wet, black asphalt, choking on his own blood.

Sammy is sobbing, but Dean's ears are ringing from the gunshot and he can't hear it, only feel it.

Dad leans down, looks through the opening where the windshield used to be, “Come on, boy!” He holds out a hand.

Dean passes Sammy out first, seeing Dad's hands take him under the arms. Then he carefully crawls over the seats and wiggles out of the cab, trying not to scrape against the jagged edges. When he's out, he sees Dad checking Sammy's side and pressing kisses to the top of his head. Then he grabs Dean and pulls him close.

“It's okay. It's okay,” Dad says. It's all of three seconds of comfort before Dad's eyes set fiercely and his face straightens out. “Grab the other rifle Dean, and get ready to run.”

Dean does as he's told, leans down to grab the rifle from the car and pulls the strap on it back over his head before following his dad. They run and don't even look back at the big, black truck that they've had for years, that Dean helped to pick out when his Dad bought it.

Other people are running too. Dad has his revolver back out and Dean keeps the pistol in his hands. He's shaking and everything hurts but they've got to go. They run down the street, around an abandoned firetruck, more crashed cars, more crazy people. Everyone is screaming and the night is lit up orange. The heat distorts the air and it's making Dean's vision shake; he can almost see the beams of a house in Kansas, can hear the cracking and tumbling of it all coming down.

A car crashes into the gas station and there's more fire, another explosion that rocks the ground and almost makes Dean fall on his face. More fire, flames everywhere; jumping, cracking, licking, hungry fire. It reaches out from the windows of buildings, long yellow-orange fingers trying to grab them. It's so loud from the roar of the town burning and all the screaming. Dean focuses his eyes on his father's back, Sammy's hair against Dad's shoulder, sneakers on the pavement, have to move.

“There's too many of them!” someone screams and Dean sees the wide, sightless eyes of one of the crazies. She's on the ground, missing part of her left leg, but still has her hands outstretched to him, still snaps her jaws like she wants a bite.

“Dean! This way!” His father shouts and they turn down an alley. Dad opens a chainlink gate and then closes it on the people that try to follow.

“No! Please!” One of them says but Dad ignores them, shoulders a dumpster in front of it and keeps running.

Dean looks back at the woman who's banging on the chainlink, rattling it. “Please, please don't do this!” She screams at him. She's older, looks like someone's teacher, someone's wife, someone's mom.

“Dean!” His Dad shouts and Dean turns and runs to catch up, feels his body go cold when he sees one of the sick people trying to get his father. Sammy screams too, Dad's barely keeping the guy off, his forearm braced against the man's throat.

Dean runs up, lifts the pistol, doesn't think, just squeezes the trigger against the man's temple. He feels the recoil all the way into his heart.

Blood sprays and the man drops like a bag of wet laundry. No time to pause and Dean's head just goes blank inside, can't take it in anymore. Dad's hand on his shoulder and they run, Dean's lungs burning with the effort and his side hurts, his head hurts, his hands hurt.

The alley ends behind a bar, the neon signs still lit, and there are more crazies coming at them. Dad runs up to the bar's back door and Dean follows, opens it for him since Dad's got one hand on his gun and the other holding Sammy. They rush in but the crazies are too close. Dean tries to close the door, leans all of his weight against it, but his dirty, bloody splattered chucks slide against the red and green checkered floor.

Dad leans against it with him but there are hands still reaching through the gap. “Dean! Drop the rifles, you need to run fast!”

“But!” Dean argues, they need guns, they need to protect—

“Now, son!” Dad barks and Dean obeys, quickly tugging the leather straps over his head; the motion almost takes his necklace with it, but he pulls down on the leather cord and the pendant thumps back down against his sternum. He drops the guns to the ground. “Take Sammy,” Dad orders.

Dean nods, puts the safety on the pistol and tucks it back into his jeans. Sammy is rigid in shock when Dad passes him over. He's blinking his big eyes, tears streaming all over his swollen, ruddy face. Dean holds him close, feeling sick to his stomach. So much like a house in Kansas. So much like carrying an eighteen month old Sammy down the stairs, out onto the lawn. Dean squeezes tight.

“Now run, Dean,” Dad grunts, slamming his back hard against the door with a crack, bruising the hands that reach through. There are screams. “Run up ahead, there's a bridge out of town—a-an overpass. You run there and I'll meet you. Stay out of sight and wait for me.”

Dean nods his head, feels like it just bobbles on his shoulders.

“Dean!” His Dad shouts, eyes blazing, waiting for the right reply.

“Yessir,” Dean says dutifully.

“No,” Sammy squirms, whimpers, “Daddy, no!”

Dean takes off, runs through the bar and out the other side. He keeps his eyes open, tries to think like his Dad has taught him. Gotta protect Sammy, watch for danger, eyes open, ears open, keep running, watch your feet, hold on to Sammy. He feels as light as a bird, like his bones are hollow; he's running so fast.

He sees the bridge, sees a break in the brick wall that'd get him there faster than taking the streets. He jumps over the toppled bricks and mortar and keeps running. It's downhill at first, into something like a ravine, before slanting sharply upwards, up the hill to the bridge that leads across the river and out of town. His muscles burn like fire. He can smell the smoke in the air, can feel the orange-yellow-demon chasing him, can hear his mom screaming.

“Bubba, we gotta get Daddy. We gotta!” Sammy says, his voice airy and shaken out of him by the rhythm of Dean's feet hitting the ground.

Dean doesn't reply, just concentrates on breathing and running.

It's so steep at the end, he's half climbing up towards the lights of the bridge. There's an ambulance that slid down this ravine from the street that leads to the bridge. Dean can see the broken guardrail and the trail the ambulance left in the brush. It's on it's side now and Dean hears growling and snapping. He turns his head just long enough to see a crazy guy crawling out of it. He feels sobs in his chest but can't let them out because he has to breathe. He keeps running, shoes slipping in the dirt, too dark to see where he's stepping properly, should've taken the streets.

He just barely reaches the top, breathing so hard it feels like his lungs are about to crawl out of his mouth. He tries to keep going but his thighs are giving out and each step dips into a lunge. Dean can see the bridge and he's a little higher than it now on this outcrop of land just before the river. Dad said stay out of sight, stay out of the light until he meets them. Dean decides not to run the rest of the way to the bridge—it's less than twenty yards away and he can see it's got bumper to bumper traffic just like the rest of the roads out of town. Too many people, should stay out of sight.

The hair on the back of his neck rises and Dean hears snapping teeth and growling from behind him. He spins around to face it, backing away, but the crazy guy from the ambulance is so close and he doesn't have time to reach for his gun.

Bright light and then more pops, too fast, louder than firecrackers and the crazy man drops into the dirt.

Dean spins again because the gunfire came from behind him and is relieved to see a soldier. The military is here. He breathes a gasp of pure relief.

“Th-tha-anks,” Dean pants, trying to swallow but his dry tongue just sticks to the roof of his mouth. He walks forward and the soldier raises his gun, the light attached to it blinding Dean with white and putting spots in his vision.

“Stay back!” The soldier shouts and Dean freezes.

He's never had a gun pointed at him before. It's pointed at Sammy too. He backs away, sidestepping towards the bridge because he needs to see where his dad will meet them. The river behind him, the bar neon-lit distantly to his right, the bridge shining like a beacon to his left.

Dean shakes his head, lowers his eyes, “We're not crazy. I've got my little brother. Please.”

The soldier stays still, drops the barrel of his gun and Dean lets out his breath again, shifts Sammy to his hip and holds him close. Sammy's eyes are on the soldier and he's wiggling away, scared. The guy is dressed all in black camo, a big assault rifle in his hands, a gas mask obscuring his face like HazMat or something.

“It's okay,” Dean speaks lowly to the terrified toddler, “It's okay, Sammy. He's gonna help us.” He looks towards the bar and can see people running, but they look small from here. He can't see his Dad.

The soldier clicks the radio on his shoulder, “I've got civilians in the outer perimeter, please advise.”

Dean look towards the bridge, but there's only cars. He doesn't see anyone on foot.

“Sir, they're kids,” the soldier says into his radio. There's a pause, _“But—”_

Dean's eyes focus back on the soldier. That doesn't sound good. He's gonna leave them behind. “Please,” Dean begs and his voice shakes, so thin his words sound like the wind is carrying them away, “Please we just need help.”

“Yes, sir,” The soldier says darkly and Dean feels in his gut that they aren't about to get help at all.

The barrel of the assault rifle rises again. The white light hits Dean straight in the face and he barely has time to shout, barely has time to take a step back, before he hears a _**rat-a-tat**_ and feels fire scorch through him.

Sammy's blood-curdling scream, rolling, dirt in his eyes, falling, breath knocked out, dirty pennies in his mouth, water above him, sky below, empty arms. _No!_

_God, NO!_

Dean's struggling, upside down, blood soaking through his shirt, and head buzzing. The soldier is walking up to him, gun aimed but Dean is looking for Sammy. Dean's rolled halfway off the cliff, caught in some brambles and doesn't have the strength to right himself. His head twists side to side, fire lighting him up with each movement but he doesn't see Sammy. He's not anywhere.

Water above him, sky below, the barrel of a gun pointed at his face by a monster that looks fifty feet tall from this angle and Dean just closes his eyes.

A bang sounds off, but it's not the sound of the rifle. Dean looks and sees his father, blood all over his face, revolver pointed at where a soldier has fallen. He looks so big, as tall as a skyscraper.

“Dean!” Dad yells, looking over the edge of the jagged cliff.

“Dad,” Dean cries. “Daddy, please,” He whimpers, a broken little voice coming out of his mouth. He doesn't care.

“Oh God, oh baby. Hang on, boy. Hang on,” Dad drops to his knees and his big hands grab at Dean's ankle, then his knee. He's dragging him up and Dean screams and sobs openly, the fire blazing so hot.

“Oh hell. He shot you, that motherfucker,” Dad is muttering shakily, putting a heavy hand over Deans shoulder and pressing, making him scream again as black lights dance in his vision.

“Where's Sammy?” Dad asks and Dean just stares up at the sky, eyes rolling and black spots overtaking the stars. “No, no, no, Dean. Stay awake, kiddo. It's just a shoulder shot, you'll be okay. Dean? Dean?”

“Sammy?” Dad is saying, shouting, over and over and over. He leaves Dean, climbs halfway over the cliff. “Sammy! Sammy, answer me baby! Oh no, oh no… No, God… _No_ , don't do this to me. Please don'—” a sob, as broken and little as Dean's, “Sammy please! Cry for me, baby. Please, just cry! J-Just… Just cry baby boy! _Sammy! SAMMY!_ _ **SAMMY!**_ _”_

Dean is on his back, staring up at the sky and he wishes he was nothing but ash.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. If you want to see more, please leave a comment and a kudo so I know!
> 
> This work is unbeta'd so feel free to point out mistakes you see. I'm also not familiar with AO3 formatting, so if you've got tips or advice I'd appreciate if you let me know.
> 
> As a note, I know it seems like Sammy is pretty smart for a toddler his age, but I based his level of development on my own childhood. I didn't even get into Stanford, so Sam is probably even smarter than that.
> 
> I will be finishing this story no matter what, but if it's clear there's a lot of interest, I want to have it done by Halloween. After all, this is ultimately a zombie apocalypse story and there's no better time of year.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a good amount of exposition and sets up the story, but it's a bit of a slow start. Don't worry, once Sammy gets in on the story it'll pick up pace.
> 
> This chapter also goes through a lot of the game script for the sake of world building, so those who haven't played it can get a sense of what kind of zombie apocalypse we're dealing with here.

Chapter 1

 

**Summer**

**Fifteen years later**

 

Dean wakes with a start, sitting straight up. He lets out a breath; doesn't think about the dream. A sharp knock reminds him that he didn't wake for no reason. The rhythm of it is distinct.

He rises from his bed and brushes off his dirty clothes, like that'll make the slightest difference. Wiping a hand down his face, scraping through the stubble on his chin, Dean makes his way to the entrance of his apartment. He snaps open all three deadbolts and pulls open the door, unsurprised to see the pretty, dirty face of his partner.

“Jo,” he sighs, stepping out of the way and letting her in. She just gives him that look, dark brown eyes piercing all the way through him before stepping inside. Dean closes and locks the door behind her.

“How's your morning?” Jo asks as she saunters across the room, goes straight for the liquor bottle sitting on the table. She snags the glass next to it, unscrews the bottle, and pours herself a good two fingers of amber whiskey, “Want one?”

Dean sighs, hands on his hips and head dipping down to look at the ground. “Breakfast of champions,” he mutters, “But _no._ ”

Jo turns, sits against the rickety table and sips from the glass. Dean notices then, the bruises and cuts beneath the usual dust, her knuckles reddened. “Well, I have some interesting news for you,” Jo drawls.

Dean glowers, displeased with her cavalier attitude and suspecting that by _'interesting'_ she means _'bad.'_ “Where were you, Jo?” He demands.

She eyes him for a second, no smile, not on a woman this tough. “West End district,” She finally answers and Dean gives a mean glare, can't believe she went there alone. “Hey, we had a drop to make,” She argues, with a casual shrug, another sip.

“ _We,_ _”_ Dean specifies, as he grabs a clean rag off his counter, walks back to her and holds it out,“ _We_ had a drop to make.”

Jo scoffs, but takes the rag out of his hand, pressing it to the worst of the damage along her right cheek, “Yeah, well, you wanted to be left alone, remember?”

Dean eyes the injuries on her face. It's nothing too serious, but even small cuts can turn into big problems. All they need is for one of them to get an infection—not even the cordycep kind, just the dumbass, can't-keep-your-shit-together kind. When he looks away from the bruises and meets her eyes, Dean sees that Jo's staring right back.

“So, I'll take one guess,” Dean grumbles, crossing his arms, “The whole deal went south, and the client made off with our pills. That about right?”

Jo laughs humorlessly, pulls the rag away to examine how much blood is on it, before pressing it back without even a wince. “Deal went off without a hitch,” She says, “Enough ration cards to last us a couple of months—easy.”

Dean doesn't think her face is the product of a deal _'without a hitch.'_ “You wanna explain that?” he asks motioning to her.

Jo frowns, lets out a breath fixing her gaze on the floor as she talks, “I was on my way back here and… I got jumped by these two assholes, alright? Yeah, they got a few good hits in, but—” At Dean's disapproving look she frowns for real, the hand dabbing at her face dropping heavily to her side, “Look, I managed.”

He rolls his eyes at her before saying, “Gimme that.” Dean pulls the rag from her hand none too gently, pours some of her whiskey on it, and reaches out to tip her chin to the side. He swipes at the little scrapes himself, eyes flicking up to hers once, “Are these assholes still with us?” He asks as he carefully wipes a few pieces of gravel caught in the deepest cut.

Jo raises an eyebrow, “Now _that's_ funny.”

Dean doesn't encourage her. “Did you find out who they were?” he continues digging.

“Yeah,” She shrugs but doesn't elaborate. At Dean's expression she huffs and pulls away from his touch, “Look, they were a couple of nobodies—they don't matter. What matters is that _Gordon_ fucking sent them.”

“Gordon,” Dean says in disbelief. Guy's a little unhinged, that's why he's on their list, but he should know better than to go after someone like Jo. “Our Gordon?”

“He knows that we're after him,” Jo says standing up now, facing him at her full height, “He figures he's gonna get us first.”

They've been planning on taking over Gordon's jurisdiction. They're better at smuggling than him anyway and Gordon's got some choice clients. Plus no one likes dealing with him; everyone in the circuit's got a bad story to tell about Gordon and Dean's been looking forward to wiping the smug grin off that bastard's face for weeks. Dean and Jo have been absolutely quiet about it; they still do their normal business with him, still let him store their cargo when they need it. There's no way there's any rumors floating around about their plan.

“That son of a bitch,” Dean mutters under her breath before scratching at his chin, “He's smart.”

Jo smirks and shakes her head, “Not smart enough.” She leans in close, eyes lighting excitedly, “I know where he's hiding.”

Dean's looks at her in surprise, “Like hell you do.”

Now she smiles, only smiles when she's winning something. “Old warehouse in Area 5,” She tells him and the confidence in her voice means she's sure. “Can't say for how long, though.”

There's silence between them for a moment, the last time they met fresh in Dean's mind. The brutal, hot sex—Jo's tight little body pressed up against his, warm skin the color of milk. Then the fight, broken glass, a bottle against a wall, and the kind of yelling that Dean always regrets when he's done. Yet she's still here, hasn't given up on him. It wasn't their first fight and it damn well won't be their last. Somehow they're okay, and in the silence they can both read the forgiveness, the acceptance, the affection. Her lips quirk just a little, barely noticeable, the only kind of smile she has that doesn't have anything to do with winning at all.

Dean looks away, but a similar expression pulls up on his own face. “Well, I'm ready now,” he says, breaking the spell, “Yeah?”

Jo blinks slow, pale lashes casting shadows on her cheeks, “Oh, I can do now.”

 

Xx--xX

 

When the outbreak started, Dean and his father used to travel, avoiding the quarantines and the military. They left Texas, picked up a car, and drove together all over—through the heartland, down the west coast, back through the deep south, and then up the Eastern seaboard. City to city, towns and farms, in and out of quarantines; they made their bread and butter as some of the best damn smugglers the apocalypse had to offer. Until Dean got careless and Dad paid the price. He was twenty-one when he buried his father, but he's kept up the family business and Boston has plenty of demand to keep him busy. Seems like he's finally settling someplace; it's as much of a home as he'll ever get.

Dean came to Boston just over a year ago after he got fucked over in Atlanta. He'd crossed the wrong guy: Crowley, the leader of a gang of hunters called the Hellhounds. They control a big chunk of the southeast—parts of Tennessee, Alabama, Georgia, and all the way to the tip of Florida. He worked with Crowley for about a year, stole whatever thing the boss sent him after and lived the high life. Dean had a nice place, plenty of booze, food, and girls willing to fuck him to get into the boss's good favors. Then he got into some trouble with one of Crowley's bitches, Lilith; not just a few aces short of a deck, more like she's stacked with coupons and Uno cards and pieces of toilet paper.

Dean hated her, called her out on her two-faced bullshit and got her kicked down a rank. He got himself a hefty reward too. Turns out, dumb as Lilith may be, she's good at finding and organizing people dumber than her. She had enough contacts to start a movement of the other Hellhounds jealous of Dean's place in the boss's inner circle, especially since he was relatively new. They set him up, put out a false trail for a big bounty and he followed it. They left enough evidence behind him that it looked like Dean was gonna cut and run with as much of Crowley's wealth as he could, make his own territory and be the leader of his own kingdom. Of course it was bullshit, but even Dean has to admit it was set up well enough that he wouldn't have believed his own explanations either.

He might've been completely caught off guard, but luckily he managed to catch one of Lilith's little spies leaving Crowley's prized Colt in his bag. Dean pulled the rest of the story out of him along with his molars. By that time, it was too late; on his way back to base he was attacked. Crowley had put out a bounty on his head. He had to run, didn't know where to turn first. He'd burned most of his bridges at that point and Dean didn't have many contacts left.

Early on, he and Dad had taken refuge in a bar called the Roadhouse, owned by Missus Ellen Harvelle. Back when people still expected they'd be able to wait the apocalypse out, she'd turned it into a halfway house. It was a hospital, a farm, a hotel, a bar, a communication hub, and whatever else they needed it to be. When Dean first met little Joanna Beth Harvelle he was thirteen and she was eight, still in pigtails. A year later, when Dean was fourteen, he met a boy named Castiel at the Roadhouse, an orphan with nobody and nothing; some survivors had found him holed up by himself and half-starved in a small town. They brought him to Ellen.

Once upon a time, Dean, Castiel, and Jo were thick as thieves. They were similar enough in age—Cas only a year older than Dean—that they spent a lot of time together. Then one day, the next time Dean and his father were packing up to leave, Cas asked to come with them. Dad said they could use the extra set of eyes and hands.

The three of them became a team; traveling together to scavenge, loot, and smuggle their way through the lower 48. They called the Roadhouse their base; always returning no matter how far they drove away. It's location was central enough, smack in the middle of Nebraska, that they always stopped back in for supplies and a good bed.

Then the Roadhouse got burned down by rogue military trying to take control of the area; the government dead, the chain of command broken, and a bunch of dumb fucks with AK's and nothing to lose. Ellen, Jo, and Ashe, Jo's much older half-brother, were left homeless. The Harvelles left for Boston the winter before Dean turned twenty-two, not long after his father had died, and that was the last he heard of them.

With dad and the Roadhouse gone, Dean and Cas just tried their best to keep going without them. The two of them settled in Chicago for a while. Dean got wrapped up in a gang and a girl—beautiful Lisa—and Cas… Well, Cas got wrapped up in the Fireflies, the rebel group fighting against the military leaders that rule the world. Cas started seeing Meg, the fuckin' daughter of their big, bad leader. It all went south, like everything always does, and Cas took off. He didn't want to fight or steal anymore, went to go live hippie style out in the wilderness.

Dean's been on his own since twenty-three, hadn't bothered to keep up with his old contacts, just went where the job took him and did what he had to do to keep breathing. So when he had to leave Atlanta, injured and penniless, he didn't know who to call.

On a longshot, Dean booked it to Boston, hoping the Harvelles were still around. When he'd first contacted Jo, it'd been almost six years but she still remembered him. She welcomed him into the city, pulled all her strings to get him through the checkpoints and get him a new identity. In exchange, he became her muscles and her smuggling expert. The underground community here basically worships the ground Jo steps on and Dean just follows.

He keeps quiet, doesn't want the Hellhounds to hear he's alive, and just follows his new boss. He's gotta say, a sassy, curvy blond is a big improvement over the snakeoil businessman that Crowley was. Dean likes Boston, likes the life he's got here, maybe even loves Jo but he'd never say it. As he follows her out of the apartment building, he quirks a little smile at her graceful steps and confident swagger. She'd never listen even if he tried to tell her.

Outside, the air is hot despite the cloudy, gray sky. The buildings are tall, nothing like the rural fields and forests around Roadhouse; he sometimes wonders at how Jo moves in this environment like she was born to it. It's all tight packed brick buildings with hastily boarded up windows and peeling paint. The air smells like metal and unwashed clothes. There's trash piled up in the corners of the streets and nowhere else to take it; it'll keep piling up. There's graffiti all over the old, dirty masonry:

_NO FUTURE,_ _BURN IT ALL DOWN_

 

_FIREFLIES WILL TAKE IT BACK_

 

_S_ _EEK THE FIRE!_

Dean's eyes skim right over it. The real Fireflies aren't the ones spraying that shit on the walls. That's the newbies, the dumbass kids who hate the world enough they'll join anybody who says they can make it better. The United States officially declared martial law about six months after the outbreak and things have only steadily gotten worse. The Fireflies started as a counter movement in cities where the military had so much control they were killing civilians just so they'd have less mouths to feed. The Fireflies managed to overthrow the military in some cities, taking over their quarantine zones. They've since spread, new idiots cropping up every other month all willing to devote their lives to a cause. They're now a nationwide movement with operations in all the major cities, struggling to take control from the lingering power structure of the military.

Dean thinks it's useless. The Fireflies can't keep the peace any better than the soldiers; changing the names and faces of who leads the cities won't do jack shit for their everyday problems. But people are unhappy enough that a lot of them think any change would be better than none. It makes him think of Cas, knows from the grapevine that he's still alive even if it's been over four years since Dean's heard from him.

“The checkpoint's still open,” Jo says as she walks forward, Dean following just behind her right shoulder.

“Only got a few hours left until curfew,” He reminds as they exit the little alleyway from his place and out onto the main streets.

“We better hurry up then,” She replies, doesn't even look over her shoulder at him.

An armored truck rolls by, the loudspeakers chiming its usual call, _“Attention. Citizens are required to carry a current ID at all_ _times. Compliance with all city personnel is mandatory.”_

The city looks worn down, dirty and broken, just like everything else in this world.

“Look at that,” Jo says lowly, nodding her head towards the metal roll-up door lowered over the storefront for rations. “Ration line hasn't opened yet. Must be running low again,” She scoffs but it's not a joke. Dean's been in other quarantine zones where the rations ran out. It's not the kind of shitshow you want to get caught in.

As they head for the checkpoint, they see people getting lead out of a building at gunpoint. No, not people, Dean realizes. Infected. The guards force all four of them down on their knees, one of them stepping forward to give the dead men a final scan to be sure. He and Jo keep walking, no reason to watch. He hears one arguing:

“ _I'm not infected! The scan's wrong!”_

The scan is almost never wrong. Even when it is, better safe than sorry.

“Seems like more people are gettin' infected,” Jo says casually.

Dean shrugs, not bothered, “That just means more people are sneakin' out.” Dumb bastards think they're smart enough to make it, think they're tough enough for the world outside the quarantine walls. The less of those idiots around the better for everyone else.

Dean sees Andy hanging out on the street corner up ahead with a bent, hand-rolled cigarette hanging from his lips. Kid can't be twenty yet but he's a good little spy. He's sweet and unassuming, can get soldiers and Fireflies alike to spill their secrets and rumors. But he sometimes gets himself into trouble, earns his ration cards making friends with a lot of types from his street corner. Dean hasn't gotten close to many here, but he passes this area all the time and has helped the kid out of a couple tight spots—when his clients get rough. Andy returns the favor with all sorts of info.

“S'up, Dean?” Andy grins at him as he passes, holds out his hand and Dean takes it. Their palms slide away; their fists bump.

“Nothin',” Dean assures straight faced but Andy, the clever fuck, reads through him and winks. Dean rolls his eyes, shoves the kid's shoulder and keeps going. Jo doesn't slow down in the least.

They reach the checkpoint and Dean knows just how to act. Keeps his shoulders down and his face tired, makes himself look like a just a manual laborer. It's always better to just look like some schmuck of no interest. The soldiers posted on top of the checkpoint wall skip right over them. They approach the gate and it's Henrickson, a familiar face in this zone. He doesn't know Dean and Jo, not really, but they know him. He's a good guy for a soldier, not known for fucking people over or taking what's not his, but he's strict on rules. Dean elbows Jo lightly and she obediently steps out of the way and lets him take the lead.

“Let me see your IDs,” Henrickson orders, holding out his hand.

Dean passes both his and Jo's over. They're fakes but good ones; they won't get caught.

“What's your business?” Henrickson asks, unfolding the limp papers and skimming.

“Got the day off,” Dean shrugs, earnest eyes, no challenge in his body language. “Gonna visit a friend.”

The soldier nods, also tired, doesn't want to be on checkpoint duty anyway. “Yeah, alright,” He says, passes the papers back and Dean tucks them away in his pocket.

Just as he and Jo are about to step through, there's an explosion that blasts them back a couple feet. Heat and the stink of gas, a rush of concrete dust and shrapnel, a roaring orange flame overtaking a military truck.

“Get back!” Someone shouts and Henrickson slams the gate.

“Go! Get out of here!” He yells at them before slamming down the visor on his helmet taking off in the direction of the fire, gun raised.

“Oh shit,” Jo curses, grabbing Dean's arm and pulling him back.

“Fireflies!” comes a shout from above, the soldiers posted on the checkpoint walls already shooting.

“Fuckin' shoot 'em!”

“They're running! Call for backup!”

Dean's eyes scan quick, but there's no way out. This checkpoint is locked down and the firefight isn't gonna end neat.

Jo is still pulling on his arm, “Dean, come on. Let's get outta here.” It's a command and Dean's not here to argue.

He turns, abandoning their plan and running back into the main streets with Jo. He's slow, got a chunk of concrete to the face and another to the shin, and he's still waiting to shake off the sting.

“Let's go,” Jo hisses over her shoulder, her glare turning mean, “C'mon.”

Other guards are running past them in the opposite direction, going towards the checkpoint to back up the soldiers, shoving past Dean and Jo roughly.

“ _Attention. Checkpoint 5 is now closed until further notice. All civilians must clear the surrounding area immediately,”_ the loudspeakers call out, echoing off the concrete and brick and filling the streets. Most everyone has run already; Andy's gone from his street corner.

Jo whistles sharp and Dean follows her into one of the main housing buildings. She holds the door just long enough for him to get in before slamming it closed behind him and locking it tight. Anyone without a key will be SoL.

Dean's still catching his breath, reaches up to wipe the gray concrete dust from his face and grimaces when he feels a tender spot on his chin that's definitely gonna bruise.

“Fuck…So much for the easy route.” Jo says with a shake of her head, smart-allecky in the face of danger. She sizes him up as he straightens his shoulders and then reaches into her bra to pull out some antiseptic pads and a couple of aspirin. “Patch yourself up,” She orders, “We gotta keep moving.”

Dean pops the pills dry as he follows Jo deeper into the building. The apartments here don't have doors so they can see inside where the people, the families, are huddled up waiting for the gunfire to stop. He uses the antiseptic to clean his face and feels it sting, knows the concrete broke the skin.

“They're gonna close all the checkpoints,” Jo says, not turning to look, assured that Dean' dogging her steps and paying attention. “We're gonna have to go around the outside.”

“Outside the wall?” Dean asks, eyebrows going up as he finally shakes off the pain in his shin and manages to stop limping.

“Or we could just let Gordon go,” Jo says sweetly in a sing-song voice, like either of them is that forgiving.

“Cute,” Dean snarks. Gordon put out a hit on _Jo_. They're bashing that assholes head in if he has to do it with his bare fists.

They turn a corner and there's Ashe, keeping watch on their node of Boston's underground railroad. The older man stands when he sees them, his dirty, sleeveless orange flannel half-unbuttoned down his chest. His mullet is so overgrown that he and Jo could trade beauty secrets and barrettes.

“Hey Jo, you see that shit?” Ashe asks, motioning sloppily in the direction of the checkpoint. Dude's not drunk, but he pretty much acts like it all the time. He got beat to hell by some hunters back in the day, hasn't ever been quite the same since. Dean's used to it.

“I was there,” Jo answers, still walking and Ashe joins them, following at her side, “Hey, how's the east tunnel looking?”

Dean doesn't mind being left out of this conversation; he's used to that too. He's pretty much just Jo's silent shadow. Few people ever bother to address him when she's present.

“It's clear,” Ashe informs, “I just used it. No patrols. Where you off to?”

Jo's careful, but she's got no reason to lie to her own brother. “Gonna pay Gordon a visit,” She says, doesn't even lower her voice. Cocky as hell but she pretty much owns this side of town.

“You too?” Ashe asks and that catches Dean's attention.

“Who else is looking for him?” Jo asks the question that's on Dean's mind.

“Uh, Meg,” Ashe answers, scratching at his messy hair, “She's back in town and been asking around, trying to find him.”

Jo sound's surprised, “Meg? What do the Fireflies need with Gordon?” That's a damn good question too. But Dean's more concerned that Meg is in Boston at all. After her father died, she took over the Firefly operation. There are other generals, other leaders, but Dean's yet to meet a Firefly that wouldn't bow out to her if pressed.

If she's in Boston it's for a reason, and Dean doesn't think Gordon is enough to attract the likes of her. Dean doesn't want to know her real motives, just wants to stay well out of her way. That means they're going to need to get to Gordon quick, before Meg.

Ashe grins, shows his gap-toothed smile, “You think she'd tell me?” He asks sarcastically.

“Well, what did you tell her?” Jo demands.

“The truth,” Ashe answers easily, “I got no idea where he's hiding.” Probably not quite true, but enough that he bought them some time.

“Good man,” Jo nods, a little smile for her brother, for keeping the Fireflies out their business, “Hey, you stay outta trouble, alright? Military's gonna be out in force soon.”

Ashe smirks, pats Jo's shoulder, “ 'Course, lil' sis. See you around.” He stops following them, turns to go back down the hall to his post. He gives Dean a mock salute and smile as he passes. Dean nods his head in return.

Ashe was already twenty when Dean met him, far too old to have ever bothered hanging out with him, Cas, and Jo. They're not close, but they're something like friends. As close as friends ever get these days.

Once Ashe is out of ear shot, Jo flicks a hand over her shoulder and Dean recognizes the signal. He hustles up to her side and leans in close to listen.

“Meg lookin' for Gordon?” She speaks lowly, flicks him a hard glance. “What do you make of that?”

“I don't like it,” Dean gives it to her straight. “We better find him before the Fireflies do.”

Jo meets his eyes and gauges him, apparently decides he's right because she lets out a long sigh through her nose and nods once. She pats his shoulder hard as she crosses in front of him to enter the second to last apartment down this hall. It's the entrance down into the hidden underground tunnels that connect the different sections of Boston, including outside the quarantine zone. It's familiar, the path they've used a hundred times by now to transport their cargo and get around after curfew.

Jo talks to the current guard watching over the secret door and making sure the soldiers don't find it. It's Ava today, a normal looking girl and one of Jo's contacts; they're close. While the ladies catch up, Ava giving the news and Jo asking about the last military patrols, Dean's the one who has to push the heavy cabinet that hides the hole in the wall. Ava doesn't address him at all, but she wishes them luck and stands ready to push the cabinet back into place.

Jo hardly spares him a look before she crouches down, one hand on the ledge of the hole before jumping in. Dean can hear the echo of her harsh exhale and the slap of her feet hitting the ground. He gives her five seconds to get out of the way before he jumps too.

Dean lands on his feet, swaying for balance, and only Jo's hand on his shoulder keeps him from tipping face first into the garbage littering the ground. He nods when he's got his feet under him, pats her hand and then pushes it away.

Above them there's a scraping sound and the light from the hole above them slowly disappears.

“Ugh, this place reeks,” Jo complains, already heading off further into the tunnels. “They need to watch what they throw away down here.”

Dean doesn't reply, lets her talk.

He's checking the corners, eyes quickly adjusting to the dark as Jo goes to the generator and starts it up. It rumbles and kicks once but doesn't start. It'll light up a few bare bulbs strung up in strategic corners, just enough light to see what they need. If he's honest, Dean prefers the dark. The dark is quiet, simple; even if he can't see, it means nothing can see him either. Dean relies more on his ears anyway.

Jo grunts as she pulls harder on the throttle cable and the generator finally starts to hum. “Let there be light,” She jokes as the bulb filaments flicker to life and begin to glow. “Let's grab our gear. Our backpacks are still here from last time.”

She's right. Their bags are right where they left them, untouched even though others use this tunnel too. Jo's backpack is purple, or at least it _once_ was, and it's pretty distinctive. No one would steal from her and that's spread to Dean by proxy.

Dean pulls the gun from his bag—doesn't carry it unless he needs to, doesn't want it confiscated. Technically, citizens are allowed to have guns, but Dean's ivory handled Colt is a thing of beauty and soldiers aren't really interested in justice as much as control. He ejects the magazine on his pistol and checks it. Eight fuckin' rounds. “Not a lot of ammo,” He informs as he snaps it back into place and checks the safety, flicking it off and then back on.

“Well, make your shots count,” Jo replies callously, already walking away towards the path to outside the quarantine walls. “Alright, Texas,” She says, likes making fun of his slight southern accent, “Boost me up.”

Dean doesn't roll his eyes, but she can see he wants to. He just straps his backpack on, tucks the pistol into the back of his jeans, and walks over to her. He braces his back against the wall they need to climb and laces his fingers together for her to step into.

“You ready?” She asks, eyes tracing over him once. She's appreciating his… assets, loves having a man at her every whim even if she could easily make it through this area without him.

“Yes, ma'am,” Dean answers. He kind of loves being the man at her every whim.

She takes a running start, aims perfectly and steps into his hands before jumping at the same time that Dean lifts up hard with a grunt. Jo flies up high enough that she doesn't need to catch the ledge with her hands, already leaned over it at the waist.

He backs up to watch her wiggle over the ledge, doesn't mind checking out the assets too, especially when she can't catch him at it. When Jo's got her feet under her she leans back over the ledge with a hand out.

“C'mon,” She orders, shaking her hand at him and Dean backs up to take a running start too. He's done this enough times that he knows not to question her strength. Jo is the toughest girl he's ever worked with and ten times stronger than she looks. She's got a small frame but every inch of her is muscle; Dean knows 'cause he's touched. He runs up fast, jumps, and grabs her hand, his boots scratching at the wall for purchase. Jo leans back with all her weight, pulling him up enough that he can grab the ledge with his other hand and take over from there.

They follow the tunnels together, Jo at the lead for now and Dean covering her back. Jo isn't dumb, but sometimes Dean worries she's overconfident. She's been in Boston since she was about fifteen, knows this place like the back of her hand and can get complacent. She's walking like she's got nothing to fear and at the end of the path, she climbs the ladder that leads outside without the slightest hesitance.

Dean's seen grown men cry at the threat of being kicked out of quarantine and forced outside its walls.

“Be careful,” Dean warns softly as she's lifting the cover to look out.

“When am I not?” She asks, looking down at him briefly.

Dean chuckles, “That a trick question?”

She's tough and smart but still so damn young. He remembers being twenty-three, being sure he'd seen everything this hell of a world had to offer, thinking that dying didn't scare him. But he's not here to lecture, he's here to protect. As long as Dean's good at his job, Jo can be as cocky as she wants.

Jo carefully lifts the heavy wooden door that's used to cover this secret exit. “All clear,” She says after a minute, before shimmying up and out. She turns back to lift the cover for him, “Come on through.”

Dean's right behind her, shouldering up the wooden cover to take some of the strain off of Jo's hands. When he's out, he helps her to set it down gently. The infected are attracted to loud noises and once outside the quarantine walls, you can never let your guard down.

The secret entrance leads up into the storeroom of an old bar, but it's been picked clean by this point. The only bottles that remain are the ones that lay smashed on the floor. Outside, in the daylight, it's almost like a different world. Inside the quarantine zone is dirty and gray, full of people and the trash they collect, the trash they produce. Outside, nature has reclaimed man's stone and metal fortresses. Weeds and grass grow up and displace the cracked concrete. Moss and ivy obscure the brick faces of the buildings, like a forest trying to eat a city one year at a time. The sun has come out, the thick cloud cover shifting to let the golden light flood the abandoned, half-collapsed suburb—like even the sky has given up on humanity, sheds its light elsewhere.

Dean likes it out here. Don't get it wrong, it's dangerous as hell but so's the entire world. Outside the quarantine zones the infected rule and the slightest slip on the crumbling infrastructure can put you out of commission for good. But inside QZs, the military might put you down just as quick as a clicker-bite, and a misstep with the paranoid, violent circuit of survivors can do the same. Both environments are dangerous and require skill to navigate. Thinking of it that way, the outside isn't so bad if you know how to handle yourself.

He's not a risk taker, but Dean can hold his own out here and the change of scenery is nice. Green leaves and pretty flowers instead of the ever-present sweeping lights of military patrols; birds and insects the only noise instead of people yammering on. It's the little things.

Even Jo pauses to look around as they exit the bar out into the sunlight. There's a pit in the asphalt of what was once a street—probably from all the bombs they dropped out here back in the day—now filled with rain water and covered in moss. The some of the tall grass and ferns are up to his shoulders and the air smells clean.

“Ain't been out here in awhile,” Dean comments softly as they head towards their path—up through an apartment building then down through more tunnels. He tries not to talk much when it isn't necessary, but this is Jo so it's different.

“It's like we're on a date,” She says and Dean looks at her. She doesn't look back, nimbly stepping around the rubble and uneven ground. He can never tell when she's being serious or not, decides to go for _not_. A little harmless flirting couldn't make things worse.

“Well I am the romantic type,” Dean replies with a little grin. She catches him at it and her eyes narrow, going warm like melted chocolate, but she turns back around and keeps walking.

“You got your ways,” Is all Jo says, softly with a laugh in her voice. It might've been a joke but the giveaway is that she couldn't look him in the face when she said it. “Where's the ladder?” She asks.

Dean's attention refocuses and he scans the area. They apartment building they need to get through has the first floor completely barricaded; they need the ladder to proceed. Last people out here probably moved it.

“On it, boss,” Dean says before walking ahead of her to search. It doesn't take long, the ladder was left in the long grass only about twenty feet from where they need to go. Dean carries it and Jo watches, eyes scanning and ears open for the sound of infected.

Dean wipes the dirt off his hands after leaning the ladder up against a brick wall. It shouldn't take much longer, fifteen minutes at most to reach Area 5.

“Ladies first,” He says, stepping back to let Jo take the lead again.

“Lady?” She scoffs at him as she grabs the rungs and heads up, “You must be thinking of someone else.”

“It's all relative,” Dean jokes, watching her hips and ass as she climbs. She doesn't laugh but he thinks that was a pretty good one.

They climb up through the old apartment building, following the path they've taken many times before. Dean clicks on the flashlight that's affixed to his backpack strap when they get in deep enough that the sunlight no longer reaches them. This area is mostly destroyed, the buildings falling apart, the walls cracked and crumbled letting nature reclaim the old homes. Beds and couches, book shelves and desks, the lives people once had; all of it is either covered in dust or green.

“Down through here,” Jo reminds when Dean's looking into what was once someone's bedroom. They head down a mostly broken staircase, stepping around the holes in the wood and carefully hanging on to the banister.

“So you think Gordon's still got our guns?” Jo asks conversationally. “He basically tried to kill me, figure he probably wouldn't try to hang on to our merchandise if he thinks I'm dead.”

Gordon's got control over his own node on the underground trade route of Boston and it's sort of impossible to avoid dealing with him. They've all managed to be civil so far, at least until this bullshit, so they still had their next big shipment of guns coming through his place. Already bought and paid for, just waiting to get into their hands so they could begin distribution. Jo has people counting on those guns and reputation is almost as important as actual ability; if their clients start seeing them as unreliable, they'll take their business elsewhere. Weapon sales is their main trade and without their next shipment it'll only be so long until their ration cards run out.

Dean frowns, gritting his teeth. He knows what he would've done with their guns if he was Gordon, but he hopes he's wrong. “For his sake…” Dean grumbles ominously, “He better.”

Jo nods, pleased with that answer. They keep heading down into the apartments on the first floor. Down here there's furniture and shit everywhere, but it's all been shoved aside strategically to clear this path for those who use it.

“Speaking of merchandise,” Dean says, thinking ahead to the next time they'll probably end up outside the QZ walls, “When's the next shipment due?”

“Well, we're meeting Bobby next month,” She shrugs as she kicks dusty books out of her way and heads down into the basement. There's a laundry room, what might've once been a gym, mostly just bare brick walls and lots of dust. “Gonna get more pills, lots of ammo, supposedly,” Jo says.

Dean nods, “Yeah, Bobby always shows up with somethin'.”

Dean hasn't really been close to Bobby Singer since the outbreak. He remembers back in the day calling him Uncle Bobby, but that turned around pretty quick when he and his dad showed up in Sioux Falls looking for help and got chased off his property. Crazy old fuck shot at them and sent his six hunting dogs after them too.

'Course that kind of attitude can only get a man so far. Bobby eventually ran out of supplies and had to start dealing and trading like everybody else. John, Dean, and Cas have all worked with him in the past. Then Bobby moved East when his town got overrun, came to Boston even before the Harvelles but his loner attitude didn't mix well with the military and their rules. He left Boston and lives in Lincoln now, an abandoned town about fifteen miles out from the city. He's been trading with the Harvelles for years, long before Ellen died and Dean moved in. Bobby's a mean ol' drunk and the tin-foil hat kinda crazy, but he's reliable. Dean doesn't think they'll ever be close again, doesn't think Bobby even wants to be close to anybody again, but he can appreciate the old man's fortitude.

“Hold up,” Jo says sharply, lifting a hand and Dean stops in his tracks. “Spores,” she says, nodding her head to what looks like dust floating in the room ahead. It's too thick to be dust, this path too infrequently used for it to be kicked up like that, which means there's cordycep grown somewhere in here and it's already matured enough to start spittin' out spores.

They both quickly pull out the gas masks from their backpacks and put them on. The inside of Dean's mask smells like leather and sweat and he always loses a few hairs to the straps on the damn thing, but the lenses over his eyes are clear. They continue on the path and the spores just get thicker and thicker until it's almost like walking through fog.

“The hell are all these comin' from?” Dean says, voice muffled by the mask, “Place was clear last time.”

“They're coming outta somethin'. Stay alert,” Jo orders and Dean shuts up and keeps his eyes sharp for any growths or infected.

They continue on their path, through the dark rooms, silent except for the sound of their footsteps and heavy breathing within their masks. They find the culprit in one of the last rooms before the exit of this building. It's a dead man with the mushrooms already growing out of his whole body and forming tiered caps all around him. The spores are spitting from the open blooms on his decomposing corpse. The gas masks don't stop the smell completely, even if they stop the spores.

“Body's not that old,” Dean warns, drawing his pistol, “Keep your ears open.”

Jo nods at him, but he can't see her face at all, the reflection on the lenses of her mask obscuring her eyes. They hear the next one, before they see it. Somebody breathing, coughing, cursing, the small shuffles of someone trying to move. Infected don't talk so Dean turns the corner with his gun aimed down instead of up. There's a man on the floor, the roof collapsed on top of him along with some old cabinets, the weight of it has him pinned good.

Worse, the fall broke his gas mask so there's no use trying to save him anyway.

The guy looks up when he sees them and reaches out with his one free arm, blood on his hand. “Help me…” he gasps, one blue eye visible from the part of his mask that's missing, “My mask broke. Don't…don't leave me to turn.” He's begging, sounds close to weeping, “Please.”

Dean's shoulders slump and but he doesn't lift his gun. He's only got eight rounds.

“What d'you want to do?” Jo asks, looking to him for an answer. This is the kind of thing she actually needs him for. Jo's as tough as they come for most things, but the hard decisions, the kind that haunt your nightmares… she's still a woman, still a girl in there somewhere and she hates having to make those calls. Underneath the spikes, Jo still cares about people too much.

Dean huffs a sigh and looks away. Then he lifts his gun, one skilled thumb flicking off the safety, and shoots. They man's head splatters against the cabinets that pinned him down, his skull only kept somewhat together by the straps of a mask that failed him.

“Poor bastard,” Jo shakes her head. “Kind of a waste of a bullet.”

Dean turns, putting the safety back on, “A bullet's never wasted on an infected. We just kept the next sorry bastard from getting bit on the ankle by that dumbass.”

Jo looks at him but doesn't reply. She turns and keeps walking and Dean follows her. She's about to lead them into the next room when Dean hears shuffling steps and quickly grabs her arm. He tugs her until her back hits his chest and holds her there. She doesn't fight him, but she does pulls his hand off of her roughly.

“What?” She hisses.

“Shhh,” he says, “Listen.”

There's more of them, more infected out there. Dean hates those nasty fuckers, hates them with a passion. They're dirty, ugly, half-dead things with the faces of normal people. They're still alive, not corpses, just people with their brains full of fungus; the cordycep brain infection turns them into violent, crazed monsters that will try to kill anything they see, sometimes even each other.

Dean's heard the scientists and doctors on the radio talk about how the fungus hijacks the brain causing _'hyper-adrenalized aggressive behavior'_ or whatever the fuck. What they mean is it turns you into an empty bag of blood and fungus with only one drive: attack.

There's two from the sound of it and Dean frowns, gritting his teeth. “Alright,” he sighs softly to Jo, “We'll flank 'em. I can sneak up, take out one, but you gotta shoot the other.”

“Got it,” She nods.

“Don't miss,” is all he tells her before letting go of her and creeping into the room ahead. Jo stays behind him while he crouches to sneak up on one that's moseying across the room. Vacant and empty but not dumb. These are runners, newly turned and the fungus hasn't had time to grow through their eyes and blind them. They'll see him if they turn in his direction so he has to be quick. When he's within reach, Dean quickly stands and grabs one around the neck, squeezing tight to crush the man's windpipe.

The other turns at the movement and he sees the woman's bloodshot eyes in the glow of his flashlight, the fungus plates growing through her ragged, half torn out hair. She screams at him, pure rage and Dean's heart is pounding as he tries to subdue the one in his arms. He keeps his forearm up under the man's jaw, can't let him bite, and the thing is snapping it's teeth and gurgling. Two pops and the female infected goes down. Jo emerges from around the corner, gun in her hand.

The one Dean's choking out is getting weaker from lack of oxygen, too weak to fight much but still alive. Dean throws it down on the ground, lifts his boot, and brings his foot straight down on it's face with all his might. There's a loud cracking sound and then silence.

“Think that's all of them,” Jo says checking around the other corners. They can see sunlight now, almost at the end of the building.

“Let's hope so,” Dean sighs, doesn't let his eyes linger on the infected he took out. Just keeps walking. They leave the bodies on the floor.

 

Xx--XxX--xX

 

They reach Area 5 without anymore incident.

Back inside the QZ, there may not be any infected, but the slums can be dangerous all on their own. Dean and Jo have to make their way through the low end of Market Street, wooden stands hastily built but reinforced over the years with miscellany pieces of scrap. There's all sorts of equipment for sale, even dogs kept in a chainlink kennel, a sign saying they're 15 ration cards a piece.

“ _Hey_ ,” A man says waving as they walk through, “Hey Jo—Jo! Hey, pretty lady, how you doin' today?”

“Not right now, Martin,” She says with a wave of her hand, still walking. He trails behind them to keep up and Dean turns to block him, arms crossed over his chest.

Martin, a skinny older guy with fidgety hands and a sparkplug loose between the ears, waves him away, “No, no, it's all good, Dean. Jo knows—”

Jo turns to face Martin too with a heated glare, “ _Not. N_ _ow_. You hear me?”

The man's demeanor shifts, cowed and compliant, and puts his hands up as he backs away, “Okay. I can do that. Don't get all huffy-puffy about it.”

The situation isn't a joke so neither Dean nor Jo so much as crack a smile. They keep going, heading through the market. The shopkeeps don't sit behind the counters, they stand in front of them, usually with a weapon in their hands. They say _'You touch it, you buy it.'_ There's too many little thieves around to be complacent.

Jo walks up to a younger guy in a hoodie hanging out in a corner by himself and pulls out a bundle of ration cards from her bag. “I'm lookin' for Gordon,” She says holding the cards out, “He come through here?”

The guy looks back and forth between the two of them before taking the cards. Looks like he needs it, he's scrawny as all hell. “Half hour ago,” He says softly “Went back to the wharf. He's there now.”

Jo smiles. “Thanks, Garth,” She says. “Catch you around?”

“Nope. I'm leavin' town soon. Gotta friend with a place for me,” He says with slow, hesitant smile. It's too genuine, a smile because he's happy and no other reason. Dean's met Garth a few times and he thinks he might've liked him once upon a time, but in this world Dean just views the guy as a liability.

“No shit?” Jo says, surprised. “Good for you, Garth. Keep your nose clean, huh?”

“Same to you, Jo,” Garth says with a nod of his head. Even smiles at Dean, “Dean.”

Dean tips his head in acknowledgment but keeps moving because Jo's already started walking again.

“You know Gordon's gonna be expecting us now,” Dean says. Jo's been too obvious, there' no way they haven't been spotted by somebody who'd tell Gordon they're coming for him.

“That'll just make it more interesting,” Jo replies casually.

Overconfident. Always overconfident. Dean's got his work cut out for him.

Jo lags behind a little, looking to a display of small tools as they pass through an old, hollowed out bus that serves as both barricade and part of the walkway now. Between the slats of the boarded windows, Dean can see two guys fighting and a bunch more in a circle watching and cheering. He pauses long enough to see which one is winning. Used to be, Dean would go to those kinds of fights all the time; in fact, that was part of how he'd gotten so much power within the Hellhounds. Dean's got a punch that can knock a man out cold and at times when he's had nothing, he could use that to earn himself an honest living.

He shakes his head and looks away from the fight; nostalgia is one thing but Dean's happy he's not the one in the pit anymore. As he's moving forward a baseball bat comes up to block his path, a mean looking black man glaring at him.

“Where d'you think you're goin'?” He asks and Dean's hackles rise up.

“Isaac,” Jo barks out, coming up behind Dean, “Sit back down.”

The guy's face immediately evens out and he glances between them. The baseball bat comes back down and he holds it loosely at his side, even smiles a little. “Oh sorry, Jo. Didn't realize you two were together.” He motions them through, “Go ahead.”

Jo takes the lead this time and Dean is more than content to follow. “Who was that?” he asks softly when they're far enough away.

Jo rolls her eyes, “An old headache. Don't ask.”

“Kinda like it when you get all bossy,” Dean leans in close enough to tell her. He doesn't linger, knows others are watching them and doesn't want to give them rumors to spread.

She gives him a look, and damn Dean's really starting to love that. Some days he spends hours thinking about what he can do to make Jo keep looking at him just like this. It's a look that says, _'you think I don't already know exactly what you like, Dean Winchester?'_

“Well I like keeping my business in order,” Is what she finally says. “Now lets go get our fuckin' guns and kill us a traitor.”

“Yes, Ma'am,” Dean smirks.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading.
> 
> Ready for more? Kudos and comments are how I gauge reader response. Again, this is unbeta'd so feel free to point out mistakes or give criticism.
> 
> Next chapters coming soon!


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam is finally introduced in this chapter! Remember, this is a pretty slow build story. People aren't really friendly in the apocalypse and the boys need time to get to know each other. Those familiar with the game know that circumstance will drive Sam and Dean close together very soon.
> 
> Let the epic story continue.

 

**Chapter 2**

 

 

By the time they get to Gordon, Dean and Jo have gone through over twenty men. Some Dean left passed out on the floor from his stranglehold, some he decommissioned with a slice to the back of the knee or bashed head, some… well, Jo doesn't have any qualms about shanking a man in the throat and Dean still had seven rounds left in his gun.

He's only got two now.

It's a bit excessive, but they need to build a reputation as people no one should fuck with. Everybody already likes Jo—she's straightforward, honest, a good businesswoman. Now they need to fear her, or she'll just keep getting screwed over by men like Gordon.

They chase Gordon down, trapped like a rat in his own hideaway. He apparently didn't think they'd actually make it through all of his defenses. He does try to run, but Dean and Jo are right on his tail; they corner him when Gordon makes a turn for an alley that's got a locked gate at the end of it.

The black man hurriedly shakes the fence, “Come on, come on!” He's saying, but it's not gonna open in time.

“Hello Gordon,” Jo says calmly as they approach the man from behind.

Gordon freezes, stops shaking the fence, and for a moment he just stands there. He must be taking it in, how completely fucked he is, or hell, maybe his life is flashing before his eyes. When Gordon turns towards them, he smiles, all white teeth and friendliness. Shoulders down, face open, body language relaxed.

“Jo. Dean,” he nods at them, walking slowly forward. His eyes flick by them to the rest of the alley, thinks he's gonna make a run for it. “No hard feelings, right?”

Jo bends to pick up a pipe that was lying on the ground and Gordon's smile drops. “None at all,” She answers sweetly and when he makes a dash for it, she swings the pipe hard at his right knee. It makes a loud, meaty _**ting**_ sound.

“Ahh!” Gordon shouts as he falls hard, scrapes his face up all over the concrete, “Goddammit!”

With Gordon down and unarmed, Dean just leans back against the wall, arms crossed loosely but gun still in his hand. Jo can handle her own business, she'll tell him when she needs him.

“We missed you,” Jo says, voice still perfectly calm, even a little pleased, and it's unnerving to hear her like that when she's looking primed to beat a man to death.

Gordon turns on his side to look up at her and he looks cowed, knows he's not going to get out of this alive unless he starts making amends real quick. “Look, whatever it is you heard, it ain't true, okay?” He says, voice smooth and persuasive despite the tremor of pain. “I just want to say—”

“The guns,” Jo demands, dropping the pipe with a clatter, “Our guns. You wanna tell us where they are?”

Gordon's eyes don't leave Jo. She's circling slightly, watching the man on the ground before her with a stony expression. Gordon swallows and nods, “Yeah, sure, but…” he pauses and Jo's eyebrows go up, “It's complicated. Alright?”

At that, Jo turns to look at Dean. _'It's complicated'_ means Gordon's not gonna give them a straight answer. Not without a little convincing anyway.

Dean pushes off from the wall and walks forward, Gordon's eyes settling on him now. There's fear beneath the smooth veneer he's struggling to maintain. Dean can smell it like blood in the water. “Look, alright,” Gordon speaks fast, “Just hear me out on this. I gotta—”

Dean kicks him in his smug face and feels a rush of satisfaction. He's wanted to do that for about as long as he's known this asshole. He crouches while Gordon's reeling from the kick, turns him onto his stomach and pulls out his right arm. Dean lays it out straight, one hand to the shoulder, one hand around the forearm.

“Fuck,” Gordon curses, struggling against Dean's grip, “Stop, stop!”

“Quit your squirmin'” Jo says cruelly as Dean leans on Gordon's arm harder.

He puts more pressure, enough that Gordon stills, freezes like a scared rabbit snared by its scruff. He knows Dean can break his elbow in less than a second.

“Now,” Jo says coming to crouch down beside Dean, right in front of Gordon's face, “You were saying?”

Gordon glares at the concrete, mouth tight until Dean leans down a little harder, feels the bones creak under his hands. “I sold 'em,” Gordon spits out.

Jo's mouth literally drops opens in shock and she gives Dean a _'Can you fuckin' believe this?'_ expression. “Excuse me?” she asks, focusing back on Gordon.

“I didn't have much of a choice,” Gordon growls out, trapped, scared. He looks up at Dean again, looks for some sign of humanity, and Dean knows he finds not an ounce. Gordon sees he won't get anywhere with Dean and focuses back on Jo. “I owed someone,” he admits, sounding regretful.

Jo shakes her head, “You owed _us_. I say you bet on the wrong horse.”

“I just need more time,” Gordon grunts, tries to wiggle again but quickly stills when Dean's hands tighten. “Just—Just gimme a week.”

“You know,” Jo says angrily, “I might've done that if you hadn't tried to fuckin' kill me.”

“C'mon, it wasn't like—”

“Who has our guns?” Jo demands again roughly.

Gordon's eyes flick to the gun she's still holding in her right hand, but he closes his eyes again, frowning hard. “I can't,” He says quietly.

Jo looks up at Dean pointedly, expression impassive but he knows what she wants him to do.

“Just gimme a couple days—” Gordon's words are cut off by the harsh _**pop-snap**_ of his own elbow breaking and he yelps like a kicked dog, curling in and shaking with it. Dean stands then, knows this spineless bastard's gonna talk.

Jo stands too, right beside him, and they look down on the piece of human scum laying on the dirty ground. “Who has our guns?” Jo enunciates each word, slow and solemn as the grave.

Gordon is cradling his broken arm close, looks at them and cracks, just like Dean predicted.

“It's the Fireflies,” He says, and there's a waver in his voice that means he knows he's fucked either way now, “I owed the Fireflies.” He's telling the truth.

“What?” Jo asks, even more pissed off now. The Fireflies are a goddamned militia and they're at war with the military. It's serious shit and way above their pay grade; Dean and Jo have worked hard to stay out of all that mess.

“Look, they're basically all dead,” Gordon grinds out, pain all over his face, pink spit dribbling from his mouth. “We can just— Just go in there, finish 'em off. We get the guns.” He's trying to smile, looks more like a desperate rat trying to grin through chewing it's own leg off. “Whaddya say? C'mon. Fuck those Fireflies. Let's go get 'em.”

Jo looks over at Dean, her eyes blazing mad now, before she just shakes her head and calmly says, “That is a stupid idea.” She points her gun and shoots, the sound echoing in the alley but no one will care about a dead piece of shit like Gordon. The military don't give a shit unless one of their own is jeopardized; civilians killing each other happens too often to bother trying to punish it. And it's one less mouth to feed come ration time.

It's quiet for a second before Dean sighs, “Well now what?” They needed those guns.

Jo closes her eyes briefly and turns away from Gordon's dead body. “We get out merchandise back,” She says.

“How?” Dean questions doubtfully.

“I don't know,” Jo snaps, and rather than the stony expression and voice she finally sounds like herself again. “We explain it to them.”

It probably won't work and they could get themselves into more trouble than they can handle. But without those guns, their clients are gonna get pissed off. Gordon isn't the only one who owes somebody; Dean and Jo could end up on the wrong side of a deal like this if they don't keep their promises.

Jo reads his uncertainty but persists. “Look,” She says, and this time she's trying to get him to agree, “Let's just…go find ourselves a Firefly.”

Dean sighs heavy and looks away—fuckin' Fireflies are almost never good company to keep—but he nods. Jo's the boss. He's the muscles. Do his job right and everything goes fine.

“You won't have to look very far,” A voice says from down the alley.

Both Dean and Jo turn immediately, Jo drawing her gun up before slowly lowering it when she sees who's in her sights. Jo's only met her once or twice before, but the woman is memorable.

“There you go,” Dean says in disbelief, eyes focusing in on a familiar face. “Queen Firefly.”

“Meg,” Jo says, putting on her serious face again.

The dark haired woman nods, but her smile is too tight. That's when Dean sees she's holding her side and there's deep red staining her jacket. “Why are you here?” Meg asks.

“Business,” Jo snaps curtly. Her eyes skim up and down, sees the same things Dean has, “You aren't looking so hot.”

Meg makes a face like _'no shit,'_ and steps forward cautiously, looking around. “Where's Gordon?” She asks, voice only trembling a little, “Thought he'd be around here.”

Jo steps aside and lets Meg see the dead man laying on the ground, blood still sluggishly pulsing out and pooling on the concrete.

Meg closes her eyes and frowns hard. “I needed him alive,” She mutters.

“The guns he gave you,” Jo starts, looking to get their merch and get out of this quick, “They weren't his to sell. I want them back.”

Meg shakes her head, but she doesn't laugh, understands how serious it is. “Doesn't work like that, Jo,” She says, and almost manages to sound genuinely penitent. Dean's not buying it.

“The hell it doesn't,” Jo argues.

“I paid for those guns,” Meg says forcefully, giving Jo a hard look. “You want 'em back? You're gonna have to earn 'em.”

Jo looks up towards the sky, frustrated and finally cracking a little under the strain. She knows they can't back down from this. “How many cards are we talkin' about?” Jo asks sounding weary.

Meg scoffs, “I don't give a damn about ration cards.” She looks Jo up and down again, then her eyes finally skip over to Dean. She smiles a little, remembers him. “I need something smuggled out of the city. You do that… I'll give you your guns,” She says voice vibrating a bit with pain, “And then some.”

Sounds too sweet a deal to be true, too convenient for her to pop up now. “How do we know you got 'em?” Dean asks, stepping forward to join the conversation, “Way I hear it, the military's been wiping you guys out.”

Meg smiles bitterly, looking down at her injured side, her teeth are a little pink. “You're right about that,” She replies. She takes a couple deep breaths and then nods, “I'll show you the weapons.”

Before any of them can say a word more, there's the sound of boots nearby. Someone says, _'search the vicinity.'_

Meg's face goes dead serious and she's already backing away, “I gotta move. What's it gonna be?”

Jo shoots Dean a look, “I wanna see those guns.”

Meg nods and then takes off back down the alley the way she came. Her whisper of, “Follow me,” echoes back to them.

Jo's eyes are urgent and Dean sends up a short prayer to nobody that they get out of this alive. “Fuck it,” He mutters before taking off after Meg, Jo right at his side.

They run for a solid five minutes, the sound of soldiers slowly dimming behind them until it's almost quiet again. Meg leads them up a fire-escape and they take to the roofs briefly. In the distance, they can see downtown Boston, its once gleaming skyscrapers now broken and empty, one of them is leaning against another. Closer, within the QZ but still about half a mile off, there's an explosion and a plume of flame, screams and machine gun fire.

“Holy shit,” Jo breathes out lowly, hands on her backpack straps as she watches. The wind kicks up her blond hair making it shift around her shoulders, her dark black bandana tied as a headband keeps her long bangs out of her eyes. “Is that your people?” She asks looking at Meg.

Meg looks at the smoke wafting in the distance and shakes her head. “What's left of them,” She replies with only weary resignation, “Why do you think I'm turning to you guys? This way.” Meg jumps down onto the next roof without another word.

Dean and Jo share another look, another moment of _'maybe we're in over our heads,_ _'_ but follow the woman onto the next roof and then down through one of the building's windows. Inside is something like a loft, mostly empty, just old crates and shelves.

“So why now?” Dean asks Meg as she limps across the room. She leans against the wall, taking a short break and her eyes meet his. Hers are very dark brown, almost black, set into her porcelain pale face. Jo tenses at his side, doesn't know Meg from more the reputation and a one deal a while back, doesn't want to ask questions.

“We've been quiet,” Meg answers and her smooth tone is only a little hitched from heavy breathing, “Been planning on leaving the city, but they need a scapegoat. They've been trying to rile us up.”

Dean may not like the Fireflies, may not see them as the freedom fighters they claim to be, but he can have sympathy. He's ran with groups way worse than them, after all. “Looks like they did,” He says, eyes fixing on her wound again. It's not bleeding heavily but it's gotta hurt.

She takes it the wrong way, narrows her eyes, “We're trying to defend ourselves.”

Dean puts his hands up in the universal sign of _'I meant no harm'_ and shakes his head, “Wasn't saying you weren't.”

Meg's hard look softens over a few seconds and she scoffs a little chuckle, smirks, “Let's just get moving, Freckles.” That's what Cas would call him, when he was feeling particularly annoying. Dean gives her deadpan expression but her smirk just widens. “You always were a bucket a'sunshine,” She says.

Jo glances at him, eyes wary but obviously curious despite how she tries to hide it. She knows that he used to know Meg but Dean's kept a lot of it to himself on purpose.

“Yeah, let's get moving,” Dean says with an exaggerated plastic smile that lasts all of two seconds before his face settles back into it's usual grim look. Meg's lips twitch with amusement.

They keep going, down through another building, crouching and running until they come to an overpass. Meg holds up a hand to stop them before they continue on. “There's soldiers,” She warns softly. “That's the way out,” She point to a normal looking door beneath the bridge, “We just gotta sneak around them.”

Dean peaks around the corner, trying to count the helmets and there's way more than he's comfortable with. “Don't like those odds,” He grumbles.

“You're good at your job, Dean. We can get around them,” Meg insists.

Dean looks over at Jo, leaves the decision to her. The blonde meets his eyes and then tucks her gun back into her pants. “We can ghost,” She whispers.

Dean puffs out a breath and nods, mentally bracing himself for the suspense. It's strange having two women following him, and he has to account for Meg's injury, but they manage to sneak up to the first one. Dean grabs him around the throat and chokes hard. He's not trying to kill the kid, but he feels the snap of his hyoid and knows he's done for anyway. Meg doesn't even glance at the body where Dean drops it, but Jo goes pale and can't look away. They've had to take out a few soldiers, but never within the QZ. That's the kind of shit that gets you put in front of a firing squad.

So much for being in over their heads because it feels like they're already drowning.

“There,” Meg points to the next one, a young guy not paying attention, just leaning casually against a wall.

“Yeah,” Dean hisses back. “Make some noise and I'll come up from behind.”

They separate, Dean on his own and Meg with Jo. The girls break some bottles and the soldier snaps to attention, looking around. He doesn't call out to the others though, just lifts his gun tiredly and goes to check. Dumbass. Seriously, Dean's starting to think the kids they stuff into those fatigues are getting dumber and dumber every year.

Some they manage to just sneak by, but the closer they get to their exit, the more they have to take out to clear the path. One by one, they take the soldiers down together. Meg and Jo most frequently making distractions to get the soldiers' attention and Dean coming up behind to knock them out. The last three soldiers posted here figure out that something's going down and go on alert, guns raised and barrels scanning in front of them. Dean's heart isn't racing, it's surprisingly steady in his chest, but he can hear it clearly. He can hear his own breath and the rhythm thrumming through him.

They snatch another one behind a corner and Meg grabs the guy hard, bashing his head into the concrete floor. The guy tries to scream and whimper but there's already blood in his hair.

“There!” A man calls and Dean knows their cover is up. No way they can take them out now, not with their pistols when these dudes have got military grade automatic rifles. And Dean knows how much those bullets hurt.

“Down!” Dean shouts, throwing himself low and hearing Meg and Jo to the same before all sound is drowned out by the sharp pops of gunfire.

“We gotta go!” Meg shouts back, “Run for it.”

They do and the bullets spray concrete dust behind them, leaving holes in the walls.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Jo is cursing, the words punched out with each hard breath. Dean grabs her arm and pushes her in front of him so that anything that hits her will go through him first. The soldiers are calling for backup and getting frustrated when no one in the area responds.

In the distance Dean can hear the soldiers shouting, “They took them out! They took them all fucking out! Fireflies!”

“How in the _hell—_ Call the sarge!”

_Fuck._

Meg leads them down a half broken staircase, nimble feet struggling not to hit any obstacles, before the stairs abruptly end in a jump that's scary even to Dean. Meg makes it, but Dean has to take a deep breath before he jumps too, Jo right at his side. He rolls into it, knows he's gonna be busted up tomorrow, but there's no time to be concerned with bruises now.

“Hurry!” Meg's shouting, already through the door, holding it open and waiting for them. Jo helps him up and they run for it. “Come on!” Meg shouts and there are more bullets whizzing through the air making Dean and Jo duck as they run.

Meg could close the door on them, could save herself, but she doesn't. She holds it open for them until they're in and slams it hard as soon as they're feet cross the threshold. The three of them pull down a huge air conditioning unit in front of the door and shove everything else they can in front of it to barricade themselves in. When the door is completely obscured by the A/C, old filing cabinets, and palettes, they finally stop.

Meg is swaying precariously, face a scary shade of white. “Alright,” She breathes shakily. “We're almost there. Through here,” She nods, walking deeper into the room—some kind of storage warehouse, probably for the bridge's maintenance back with Boston was a real city. Meg's limping now, can't run and Dean knows she's really hurting, which makes her actions all the more surprising.

Either she's really desperate or a lot has changed since Chicago. Meg was never the type to put herself at risk for others. She could've left them, it would've bought her way more time and she's fading fast from the blood loss.

“Thanks,” Dean says, knows when he's indebted.

Meg snorts, “Thank me after we all get out of this alive, huh?”

Dean cracks a little smile. Maybe they've all grown up a bit more since Chicago, maybe leadership changed her. She doesn't seem half as bad as she did before. He's still not willing to kill himself for her though, like so many of her canon fodder followers are.

As they head down through a set of stairs and a secret door through a hole in the wall. It leads into an old building that they traverse with ease before emerging into what Dean thinks was once an industrial kitchen, maybe part of an old restaurant. As they're walking, the loudspeakers echo through the walls, _“_ _Attention. Curfew is now in full effect. Anyone caught outside without the proper authorization will be arrested and prosecuted.”_

“Shit,” Jo curses, “We need to hurry.”

Damn straight. “What the hell are we smuggling?” Dean asks, trying to make a plan for how they'll get it out of the city and around the curfew patrols.

“I'll show you,” Meg says heading to a heavy door, she leans against it but struggles. “Dean, give me a hand with this.”

Dean helps her shove the door open, the rusted hinges squeak, and when it's mostly open Meg stumbles. She falls into the room on her knees with a soft whimper, crawling forward to try and get to her feet again.

“Whoa, whoa,” Dean says bending to help her, “Come on now, get up.”

“Get the fuck away from her!” someone screams and Dean turns putting his forearm up to block but Jo catches the kid before the hit connects. It's a good thing too because Dean sees the flash of a switch blade in the guy's hand.

“Hey, hey!” Jo's got the guy's—no, _kid's_ —wrists, pushing him away to stop the attack.

“Let him go,” Meg breathes out roughly, managing to get back to her feet. She's still swaying, sits down on some crates, pressing hard into the wound on her side.

Dean raises his eyebrows at the floppy haired puppy of a boy, scowling. Kids this young shouldn't be jumping in front of bullets for Fireflies. “You're recruitin' kind of young, aren't ya?” He asks Meg, helping her to sit up fully and keep pressure on that wound.

“He's not one of mine,” Meg grits out, nodding when she's situated well enough and pushing Dean's hands away. He doesn't insist, backs away carefully so he can keep his eyes on both Meg and this kid.

“Shit,” the boy hisses worriedly, rushing forward around Jo carelessly. He approaches Meg with hands out and hovering but not daring to touch. “What happened?”

Meg forces a smile, pink tinged, “Don't worry. This is fixable.” She looks back at Jo and then to the boy, “I got us help…but I can't come with you.”

“Then I'm staying—” The boy argues.

“Sam,” Meg says sharply, cutting him off before he even finishes his sentence, “We won't get another shot at this.”

“Hey—” Dean interjects as it finally clicks together. He points at the kid, “We're smuggling _him_?”

Meg gives him a look that says she understands exactly how ludicrous this sounds, but with enough determination that Dean can tell she just doesn't care. “There's a crew of Fireflies that'll meet you at the Capitol Building,” She says.

Jo scoffs with her mouth open in disbelief, walking over—agitated, can't stand still, “That's not exactly close.”

“You're capable,” Meg insists, voice a little too urgent as she winces with pain. “You hand him off, come back, the weapons are yours. Double what Gordon sold me.”

Dean's eyes flick to Jo. That shipment had been pretty hefty, to get _double_ would put them over the top in all the best ways. They're already doing well, but a bounty like that could make them some of the wealthiest smugglers in Boston. Hell, maybe some of the wealthiest on the east coast altogether.

“Speaking of which,” Jo replies, hands on her hips, “Where are they?”

“Back in our camp,” Meg answers.

Jo draws herself up, the same tough as nails businesswoman Dean's known so long, longer than most people get a chance to know each other in the apocalypse. “We're not smuggling shit until I see them,” Jo bottom lines it and it's clear that there won't be compromise.

Meg eyes Jo, gaze appraising. She must be convinced by whatever she sees on Jo's face because she nods. “You'll follow me. You can verify the weapons, I can get patched up. But _he's_ not crossing to that part of town,” She says motioning towards the boy. “I want Dean to watch over him.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Dean interjects, stepping forward, “I don't think that's the best idea.”

“ _Bullshit!_ I'm not going with him,” The boy insists at the same time, overly dramatic and riled up. Fucking teenagers.

“Sam,” Meg entreats in a dark voice. Dean can't tell if it's a plea or a threat.

The kid, Sam, looks back and forth between Dean and Jo with sharp eyes, a little wild with fear he's trying and failing to hide. He turns back to Meg, asking her, “How do you know them?” He stands close, talks to her like they're friends, familiar in a way that Dean notes with suspicion.

“I was close with his brother, Cas,” Meg says, a little smile pulling up her mouth as she says his name even as a grimace crosses Dean's face at hearing it. “Said if I was ever in a jam, I could rely on Dean.”

Dean crosses his arms, leaning back with a frown, “Was that before or after he left your little militia group?”

“He left you too,” Meg counters and fuck that shouldn't get to him, but it does. “He was a good man,” Meg adds, sincere and sure. Dean casts his eyes to the side, an annoyed frown on his face as he feels the tug of duty in his chest. If Cas promised Meg she could rely on him, he shouldn't break that promise. He owes Cas too much, more than his life.

It's quiet for too long, and Dean realizes they're all waiting on him to agree. He looks to Jo and she takes a deep breath, slender chest rising as she walks past the kid without a glance. She steps up to Dean and speaks lowly, “Look, just… take him to the north tunnel and wait for me there.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean curses, looking away because this is definitely one of the dumbest things he's ever done. He knows already that's he's going to do it. Jo's the boss, if he does his job right…

“He's just cargo, Dean,” Jo says with her hands out in a _'what else can we do?'_ gesture.

“Meg…” The kid says looking just as wary as Dean feels.

“No more talking,” Meg says roughly and her voice shakes as she falls into a brief coughing fit. The pink tinging her lips is getting darker and Dean knows they can't stall anymore. Not if Meg is gonna make it back to the safety of the Firefly camp before passing out. “You'll be fine,” She assures the kid, “Now go with him.”

Sam turns to look at Dean, meeting his eyes directly for the first time. He's young, Dean guesses fifteen but he might just be small for his age. He's only an inch or so taller than Jo, chestnut hair long and slightly curling at the ends over his forehead, eye color almost indiscernible in this light but he guesses light brown or hazel. Dean can see his own distrust mirrored back at him, the same weary resignation too.

Dean looks away, focuses back on Jo and looks straight into her eyes, “Don't take long,” He says. Clenching his jaw, he looks toward the kid, “And you—stay close.”

The kid shrugs his shoulders moodily, face set into a look of passive aggressive acceptance, doesn't say a word.

Dean turns to look out the door, back out to the street. He nods once to Meg and Jo, then focuses on his cargo. “Let's go.”

 

Xx--xX

 

Outside, the air is cooling as the sun goes down and the wind picks up. The sky is overcast and Dean worries the weather will take a turn. They're in a little parking lot, once surrounded by business and shops, but now long left abandoned, everything of use already taken by the military or scavenged by survivors. Not that there would've been much of worth here. The biggest shop is a payday loan place; Dean doesn't really know what they're for but remembers vaguely having to sit in the car and wait while his dad went inside places like this. The only other thing of note is a QuikMart so barren not even the shelving is left. As they walk across, they approach three dead Fireflies lying on the ground, fresh enough that their bodies haven't even gone rigid. Dean knows he's got to get them out of here quick.

“Whoa…” The kid behind him breathes as he steps up behind Dean, looking down at the dead bodies, “I heard all the shooting, but… What happened?”

“The Fireflies,” Dean says nodding towards one of the thin metal pendents lying on the ground, chain broken. They're like circular dogtags with the Firefly symbol stamped on one side, names on the other. “Same thing's gonna happen to us if we don't get off the street.”

The kid just shakes his head, eyes skating away from the corpses uncomfortably. He grabs his backpack straps and starts walking again. “You're the pro. I'm just following you,” He grumbles, voice just passive enough that Dean can't tell if the kid is being sarcastic or not.

It only takes Dean a minute or so to figure out where they are and then mentally map a route to the north tunnel. Luckily, they're already nearby and there shouldn't be any heavy patrols in this area yet. As they make their way through narrow streets, ducking behind cover periodically, one of the armored humvees with a loudspeaker set on top drives by.

“ _Attention. Harboring or aiding wanted criminals is punishable by death. Do not place yourself at risk. Report any suspicious activity immediately.”_

Sam's eyes—definitely hazel—follow it as it drives by, but he doesn't say a word. He keeps close and he's clearly capable for a kid his age. He jumps fences and ducks soldiers with a skill that speaks to having grown up in an environment like this. Dean always finds it strange to meet kids young enough that they don't know any world but this one. Fortunately, in his line of work, he hasn't had much opportunity to talk to kids anyway.

Dean leads them to an abandoned apartment building. Most of its windows are broken and blackened from fire; its been hollowed out and deemed uninhabitable, but it's right next to the massive concrete wall that separates the QZ from the rest of Boston. Every smuggler has their own preferred routes and hideouts and the north tunnel is an access point that Dean and Jo have used plenty of times before. The first and second floors have been completely barricaded off, but on the top floor, there's a service elevator that reaches the basement. From there, the basement opens to a tunnel underneath the wall and out into the broken shambles of a city. Dean looks up at the apartment building, not lingering on the scorch marks that blacken the bricks.

What the hell are they doing? This might be the dumbest thing he and Jo have ever agreed to.

“So…” the kid draws the word out, scuffing his sneakers against the ground, “Where are we going?”

Dean realizes he's been standing still too long. He motions to the apartments, “Up there, that'll get us to the north tunnel.”

Sam's eyes slowly lift to the apartments, a skeptical expression on his face, “How are we supposed to reach that?”

“Fire escape,” Dean says curtly, already moving to reach the backside of the building. He has to drag a dumpster over so they can actually reach it. Dean leads then turns to watch as Sam climbs onto the dumpster then jumps to grab the rusting edge of the fire escape, his scrawny body surprisingly strong as he pulls himself up with only a soft grunt.

Wordlessly, Dean leads them up the fire escape to the top floor and they climb in through one of the windows. The hallway is quiet, through he can still hear the movement of military outside as the first hour after curfew is when they catch the most civilians.

Sam follows in after him, doesn't stumble on his coltish legs as he crawls through the window. For all that he looks like a kid, Dean's starting to get the impression that this one is tougher than average. Dean absently wonder what the kid does for his rations.

“This tunnel…” Sam drawls, as they walk down the hallway together, “You use it to smuggle things?”

He's still a kid though, Dean thinks as he rolls his eyes at the sorry attempt to start a conversation. “Yep,” Dean answers, monosyllabic and curt.

There's a pause, the only sound is their feet on the wooden floor crunching through the detritus of fallen ceiling tiles and trash. Dean can almost hear the kid trying to decide what to say next. “Like illegal things?” Sam asks, voice going softer as though it's a secret.

“Sometimes,” Dean answers vaguely, keeps walking.

“You ever smuggle a person before?” Sam asks and Dean turns to look at him, annoyed with the questions. He's met with an earnest expression that he wasn't expecting. The kid isn't trying to annoy him, isn't even trying to interrogate him. He's just nervous and wants to talk. Against his own better judgment, Dean feels himself soften a little. Under other circumstances, he might even like the kid, and they're gonna be stuck together for long enough that they'll have to talk anyway. Though he hopes Jo will take over the social niceties when she gets back.

Sam's still waiting for an answer, brow creased and face patient. “No,” Dean sighs, turning to face front again, leading them around a corner. “This is a first. So what's the deal with you and Meg, anyways?” He asks, hoping to get the kid talking about himself rather than asking Dean questions.

“I don't know,” Sam replies, walking faster so he's just behind Dean's shoulder. He can see the sway of shaggy hair in his periphery. “She's my friend, I guess,” The boy shrugs.

Dean huffs sarcastically, “Your friend, huh?” What does a teenager need with a friend like Meg? “You're friends with the leader of the Fireflies. What're you, like fourteen?”

The barb makes Sam look up from his shoes and his gaze is heated, defensive. “She knew my mom, and she's been looking after me,” He explains, “And I'm _six_ _teen_ , not that that has anything to do with anything.” Sam finishes with an annoyed mumble.

“So where are your parents?” Dean asks, honestly curious though his voice remains indifferent.

“Where are anyone's parents?” Sam grumbles lowly, shaking his head, “They've been gone a long, long time.”

“So instead of just staying in school, you decide to run off and join the Fireflies, is that it?” Dean asks contemptuously. He's not one to judge usually, but Sam's too young to be mixed up with Meg, too young to be a soldier. Sam's not a bad kid, shouldn't die early for a useless cause.

“Look, I'm not supposed to tell you why you're smuggling me, if that's what you're getting at,” the boy responds with a rather bitchy look and Dean twitches a condescending smile. The kid's got backbone; it's funny, like a puppy growling. At his obvious amusement, Sam scowls and Dean rolls his eyes and looks away, can't help the rush of irritation he feels.

“You wanna know the best thing about my job?” Dean breathes out harshly in feigned nonchalance as they finally reach the last apartment at the end of the hallway. The military had big, full door locks installed all throughout the building, all over the city for areas they want to keep closed off. The lock for this door is dissembled on the floor, and this building inspected infrequently enough that it hasn't been noticed. “I don't gotta know why. T'be honest with you, I could give two shits about what you're up to.”

“Well great,” The kid says sourly.

“Good,” Dean shoots back, already opening the door.

Inside, the apartment is sparsely furnished. There's a couch and an armchair, a couple old kitchen chairs. There's some shelves with a few supplies, stray bullets of different calibers, some granola bars and water bottles. They're not the only smugglers to use this tunnel, but it's not widely known; the average civilian wouldn't know about it. There is some honor among thieves so things left here aren't stolen. They take only what they need and leave something in return for the next people after them.

Dean walks into the room and immediately goes for the couch. They've got at least a few hours before Jo will make it back from the Firefly encampment and sleep would do him good. The best time to sneak out is under the cover of dark, after midnight when the patrols are thinnest and if he's gonna stay sharp at that hour, he's gotta get rest. Dean lays out on the couch, feet hanging off one end 'cause he's too tall, arms crossed on his chest.

“Um, what are you doing?” Sam asks, voice drawn out in clear disdain. Dean keeps his eyes closed.

“Killing time,” He grunts impatiently.

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” the kid asks. He's got a bit of an attitude on him, and Dean isn't gonna deal with it, even if he's somewhat relieved to see the kid's got a mind of his own rather than being some kind of Firefly groupie. He still couldn't possibly be paid enough to babysit, no matter what Meg promises.

“I am sure you will figure that out,” Dean enunciates clearly, eyes still closed, ignoring his ward for the time being.

After a brief silence, Dean hears the kid give a moody sigh before walking across the room, sneakers quiet on the worn thin carpet. The footsteps pause near the couch, but Dean still stubbornly doesn't open his eyes. He can feel the kid giving him a thorough once over.

“Think your necklace is broken,” The boy points out, like he has any right to make a commentary on what Dean wears.

Dean doesn't reply, hears when the footsteps continue past him. Sam drags the armchair over to the window, and sits with a huff, fidgeting around for long minutes before settling. When it's quiet again, Dean absently lifts one of his hands to the amulet on his chest and grips it, the metal warming against his palm as familiar to him as his own name.

It's the only thing that saved him, on the worst night of his life. He didn't notice until almost a week later, barely hanging on from the blood loss and sorrow, barely able to stop for breath as he and Dad ran for their lives. When that soldier shot him, the amulet his little brother gave him was hit by a bullet, right over Dean's sternum. While it was gold outside, the core was something heavier and the bullet ricocheted, saving his life. It _shouldn't_ have; there's no way a little amulet should've stopped that kind of bullet, but it did. There's still one horn on it and the face of the tribal god is visible, if a little warped, on one side, but the opposite side is just dented metal, a mix of the outer gold and inner dark gray.

Dean doesn't have anything, not a single god damn material object from his life before, except for this.

He thinks it's some kind of special torture that he's got to transport an annoying kid named _Sam_ , but then he thinks he probably deserves it anyway.

Dean doesn't believe in God; didn't really believe even before people started growing mushrooms from their skulls and killing each other. There's no way any benevolent being could've designed a world like this one, but they say there's no atheists in the trenches and that's kinda true. Dean believes there's an order to nature, a will of the universe maybe; it's not sentient, not listening to prayers, not always fair, but it's got a way of evening things out. Karma, irony, serendipity—whatever you want to call it, Dean's seen nightmares but he's seen miracles too. He doesn't believe in destiny, hates when people say _'everything happens for a reason,'_ because that's clearly not true. It's like, even though mother nature doesn't decide which individual rabbit gets eaten by the wolf, she manages to keep the food chain in balance.

Dean's done enough bad in his life that this might just be his karma balancing itself. Jo's worked hard enough that she deserves a chance to get ahead, and double their gun shipment might be the big break she needs. The frustrating thing about nature is that the plan is completely obscure until you're looking at it in hindsight. He decides to stop thinking about it, knows this is the kind of job where anything could happen and they'll have to play it all by ear. Dean drifts off, trying to pretend he's not worrying.

 

**Xx--xX**

 

Dean sucks in a rough breath as he wakes, blinking his dry, crusted eyes blearily at the stained ceiling. He can still see the afterimage of his nightmares, bright orange-yellow flickering hungrily behind his eyelids and it turns his stomach. He groans in pain, his bones aching from shoulders to hips, and quickly takes in his surroundings. Its dark and the pitter-patter of rain echoes through the empty room, the light of the window the only thing allowing him to see. He almost forgot, but remembers it all immediately when his eyes see the shadowed profile of a young boy sitting in the armchair, backlit by the silver light; long bangs ruffled, tip of a slightly upturned nose, crease of lips, and narrow chin.

Sam turns to glance back at Dean, the light enough to see the enigmatic hazel of his eyes. There's quiet for a second, as their eyes meet. The standoffish hostility of before is gone now, leaving a tentative acceptance of their circumstances. Dean was right; Sam's not a bad kid.

The boy's mouth curls a little in a smile of greeting before he looks back out to the window. “You mumble in your sleep,” He says softly, unassuming in a way Dean's not used to. “I hate bad dreams.”

He's still getting used to the way Sam talks without having an ulterior motive, not trying to mock or dig for info, just casually commenting. Dean's been hanging around shitty people for too long. He grunts again as he finally rolls to standing, stretching out his sore back. “Yeah, me too,” Dean replies lowly, hesitant to break the silent truce they've attained.

Dean goes to grab a couple granola bars from the shelf, exchanging them for extra rifle bullets he had tumbling around the bottom of his bag. They're useless to him without a rifle anyway. As he's going over supplies, checking his bag, Sam speaks again.

“You know, I've never been this close,” the boy says, voice oddly resonant in the silence that surrounds them. Dean looks over towards the armchair at the words, only able to see the tufts of messy, tawny hair over the back. “To the outside,” Sam explains as Dean walks over, following the teenager's gaze through the rain speckled window.

The QZ is bright white and orderly; the altered electricity grid still enough to fuel spotlights on top of the wall, soldiers with their flashlights, headlights of humvees rumbling by, straight, neat lines of buildings, fences, streets. The huge barrier of concrete divides inside from outside distinctly. The land beyond the wall is dark and alien, the buildings toppled by bombs long ago, a tangle of broken infrastructure, cars, sewers, trenches. There are a couple pinpricks of lights just outside the wall, where soldiers patrol, killing infected that wander too close and keeping people from either sneaking in or out. Further out, there's the rising sky scrapers of downtown, majestic and somber, and nothing but pitch black. Even the moon is obscured by the stormy sky.

“Look how dark it is,” Sam breathes, eyes cast out to the remnants of downtown Boston. The kid has his knees up to his chest, arms curling a little tighter around them “It can't be that bad, can't be worse than in here... Can it?” He looks up then, face so earnest that Dean can't help having sympathy for the kid. He wonders what a kid like Sam did to need smugglers to get him out of the QZ, but it's clear to him the boy still has traces of innocence for all that he's been raised in a world that does its best to snuff it out.

Dean meets Sam's eyes and feels his own face turn thoughtful and confused. “'The hell do the Fireflies want with you?” he asks, but he's mostly talking to himself. Sam doesn't get a chance to answer either way.

The door opens and Dean turns quick, knows it's unlocked, but it's just Jo. The bandana she keeps tied in her hair as a headband has been swapped for a new one, dark blue instead of black. She's cleaner too, probably got a chance to fix herself up a bit more at the Firefly base.

“Hey,” She says, voice too loud after the soft, careful way Dean and Sam had been speaking. She walks in, closing the door behind her, “Sorry it took so long. Soldiers fuckin' everywhere.”

Sam quickly uncurls from the armchair, standing up and walking around it eagerly, “How's Meg?”

Jo's eyes have been all for Dean since she walked in, but she finally looks to Sam. “She'll make it,” Jo assures with a serious nod, then swiftly turns. She steps up to him, putting her back to Sam so she can speak lowly, her words meant for Dean alone.

“I saw the merchandise. It's _a lot_.” She whispers, only inches away from him, and her dark eyes are lit up bright with excitement, more excited than he's seen her in recent memory. It must be a damn good deal. “Wanna do this?” She asks and Dean knows she's not asking what he wants, but for his professional opinion. She wants to know if he thinks they _can_ do this.

Dean's eyes flick to the kid over her shoulder. Maybe if it were someone else, a teenager that was more disrespectful, more callous, Dean wouldn't be confident enough to think they could manage it. Sam is capable, obedient, but clever and self-reliant; he isn't the type to double cross them.

“Yeah,” Dean gives one decisive nod.

Jo grins. She trusts Dean's judgment. To her, his approval is as good as a guarantee that they'll complete this job. “Let's go,” She says, smoothly walking past him into the next room.

“Get your stuff together,” Dean says to Sam and the boy nods, grabbing up his backpack. He's wearing dirty jeans, but the fabric is still strong. He's got a long sleeved black thermal underneath a burgundy t-shirt with a design so faded that it's unidentifiable. His shoes actually look surprisingly new, sneakers that are sturdy but quiet. Dean turns away, assured that the kid is outfitted fine for their trip outside the QZ.

In the next room, Jo is standing by one of the windows, perceptive eyes tracing over the movements of the soldiers, making note of their patrols. Dean steps up to her side to do the same, able to tell without a watch that it's somewhere around midnight now. There's a group coming back through the north gate, the changing of the guards. The after midnight patrol is a skeleton crew. Almost no one moves around at this hour and having more soldiers about just means more of them getting hurt as they struggle to navigate the dangerous ground in the dark.

“Don't you think it's a bit strange that they're askin' us to do their smuggling?” Dean asks her.

Jo shakes her head slowly, not in answer but in thought, “Meg wanted to do it herself. We weren't the first choice, or the second for that matter.” She shrugs as she turns a 180, sitting against the window sill so she can look at him. “She's lost a lot of men. Beggars can't be choosers.”

“Yeah,” Dean replies, also looking away from the window. “Let's just hope there's someone alive to pay us,” he says with a raised eyebrow. He caught himself being almost optimistic back there, so he's gotta bring back a dose of realism.

“Someone'll be around,” Jo shrugs, then her eyes skip past Dean to where Sam is approaching. He's got his backpack on, fidgeting with the stretched cuffs at his wrists, a little too long for him. Jo spares him a warm look, must be able to sense that he's a good kid too. “Come on,” She jerks her head to the side, both of the boys following her over to a large bookcase.

Dean helps her move it, revealing a break in the wall that leads to the storage room on the other side of this apartment. The service elevator still runs but it's not supplied by the electricity of the QZ. Dean moves to the small generator, pulling the throttle cable hard a few times to start it up.

“Over here,” Jo guides Sam, “Elevator.”

When the generator kicks on, Dean joins them on the flat surface of the service elevator, pressing the button to bring them down to the basement. Sam stumbles a little as it jerks to a start but gains his footing again, and keeps a straight face. His cheeks flush a bit and Dean huffs through his nose silently, an internal laugh.

“So, who's waitin' for us at the drop-off?” Dean asks Jo, “Capitol building, right?”

“Yeah,” Jo nods, arms crossed low over her chest, “Meg says there's a convoy of Fireflies that have traveled all the way from another city. Kid must be important.” She turns to Sam then, the boy conspicuously pretending not to be listening in. “What is the deal with you, anyway? You some bigwig's son or somethin'?”

Dean can tell that's not the explanation, but Sam's got the makings of a good poker face. He smiles a little and replies, “Something like that.”

Down in the basement the walls are mostly crumbled, part of the reason this apartment building is uninhabitable. Dean leads the way forward through the tunnels, switching his flashlight on.

Behind him, Dean hears Sam asking Jo, “How long is this all gonna take?”

Jo answers, friendly if still a little stoic, “If everything goes as planned, we should get you to them in a few hours.” There's a ledge that's about Dean's height, too tall to comfortably climb for either of his companions, so once he's up, Dean turns to offer them each a hand. Despite being thin, Sam is much harder to lift, not used to being helped. Jo, on the other hand, moves with practiced grace, almost no strain on his arm at all.

As they continue, Dean takes point walking about ten paces ahead while Sam and Jo walk side by side behind him. Their flashlights shine forward, casting Dean's stretched shadow out in front of him.

“So, Sam right?” Dean hears Jo say.

“Yeah. And you're Jo?”

“That's me.”

“I've heard of you, actually,” Sam says.

“Really?” Jo asks, and Dean can hear the mixed pride and curiosity in her voice. “Not all good things, I hope.”

Sam laughs, an honest _laugh_ and Dean's eyebrows go up. Hasn't heard a laugh like that in a while.

“Just that if you want something or someone in the northeast zone that Jo's the one who can get it. That she's got people all over, runs the underground there, takes on jobs for a price. Trustworthy, tough, capable, smart…” Sam trails off. It's the same average rumors anyone might hear.

“I hope I live up to the legend,” she quips, but it's clear Jo is pleased that her reputation precedes her. She's worked hard on building it, after all.

“Well you're much prettier than I imagined,” Sam replies, but strangely Dean can tell it's not a come on. Girls as pretty as Jo aren't easy to come by these days and she gets more than her fair share of guys who want a piece. Sam's just complimenting her.

Jo chuckles, pleasantly surprised, must also hear the innocence of the comment. “Well aren't you smooth, kid.”

They're approaching the exit, thin streams of moonlight coming down around the edges of the old highway sign that's placed over the tunnel's exit.

“Almost out,” Jo comments, before Dean can say it. “So Sam, once we get out there, I need you to follow our lead and stay close.”

“Yeah, of course,” Sam replies sincerely, and Dean believes him.

Dean climbs up on the broken concrete leading up to the exit, twisted rebar sticking out from the edges. He lifts the metal cover and peeks outside. It's dark and quiet, no sweeping flashlights nearby. He waits twenty seconds but still doesn't see anything.

“Clear,” He mutters down to them before gingerly moving the sign out of the way. It scrapes, inevitably, but it's not too loud.

“Here we go,” Jo says as Dean climbs out, boots sinking into the mud and rain pelting down mercilessly. “You ready?” He hears her ask Sam.

“As ever,” the boy's voice carries up to Dean and he can't help but feel the same.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading.
> 
> Please leave a kudo and a comment if you can. If you couldn't tell from the in depth writing, this story takes a lot of time and effort. Knowing that it's not all for nothing really inspires me to keep working hard and cranking out chapters.
> 
> The set up is completely done now, and it's gonna be all adventure, horror, drama, and romance from here on out. Hope you're ready!


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to apologize to everyone who's been waiting for this update. 
> 
> While my original plan was to have the story completed by Halloween, my sister was in an accident and broke her neck. She's okay, just in a brace and needs a lot of help. On top of that, I finally got some call backs for jobs and my schedule completely flipped on me. However, I'd like to assure all readers that this story WILL be completed, no matter how long it takes.
> 
>  
> 
> To make up for the long wait, I've made this chapter massive. Thanks for your patience and I hope you enjoy!

**Chapter 3**

 

“Holy shit,” Sam breathes almost reverently as he follows Dean and Jo deeper into the darkness beyond the quarantine walls. “I'm actually outside.”

“Up this way,” Dean says lowly, signaling _'follow'_ over his shoulder, first two fingers jerkily pointed the way he wants to go.

They're making good progress, but there's a patrol nearby. They've managed to keep their distance, and luckily the soldiers are moving away from them, but Dean's trying to be careful. Dean and Jo turn off the flashlights attached to the straps of their backpacks to avoid detection, but moving in the dark is slow going. He's not used to having an amateur out with him. The landscape is difficult to traverse, uneven with deep trenches and the tunnels of the sewer exposed. There's almost no standing buildings, just the remnants of walls and beams. There's a path that Dean knows, but the soldiers probably know it too, used to catching people in the easiest areas to cross.

He pauses briefly at a fork in path. Dean can either lead them forward through more mud, knee deep water, and no certainty they'll find a way up and over the next trench they have to cross. Or he can lead them up through the established route, the hollowed trailer of a semi leaning up against higher ground. He looks for flashlights, listens for sounds, then just decides _'fuck it'_ and goes the path of least resistance.

“Watch your step,” He mutters as he steps into the trailer of the semi, one hand against the wall for balance, his muddy boots not making it any easier to walk up the steep metal incline.

It was the wrong choice.

Just as Dean steps out of the trailer on the other end, he's rushed, the butt of a rifle hitting him in the face hard enough to burst lights behind his eyes as he falls to his knees

“Don't do anything stupid,” another solider, a few feet away says as Dean forcibly blinks his vision clear, taking in the situation. Two soldiers, guns already aimed, nothing to do but obey.

Grim faced, Dean puts his hands up, mind spinning with ways to get out of this.

“Move,” The other soldier says, and it's a woman. Dean and Jo could probably take them, but not without jeopardizing Sam. Dean moves forward slowly, still on his knees, Sam and Jo following behind with their hands up as well.

Jo is calm. Sam is holding it together but clearly shaken.

“Turn around, on your knees,” The female soldier orders, motioning with the muzzle of her rifle. “You scan 'em. I'll call it in,” She says to her partner.

The three of them do as commanded, kneeling in the mud, rain coming down in a steady shower. Jo is on Dean's right, Sam on his left. The male soldier approaches from behind them; Dean watches from the corner of his eye, sees the pistol in the soldier's hand, aimed steady. In his other hand he's got the infection scanner, a thick remote looking thing that Dean's familiar with by now. The contact end of it is the metal cylinder, rolled against the back of the neck it scans for cordycep growths in the brain stem.

“Alright. Put your hands on your head,” The guard sighs, sounding almost bored as he approaches Jo first. His pistol is still aimed at her temple, even as he presses the scanner to the back of her neck.

The other soldier is talking quickly into her radio, _three stragglers_ she says, _requesting pick up._ Dean's thinking, can't come up with a plan that doesn't end with someone getting hurt.

“Look the other way,” Jo whispers persuasively up to the guard, “We can make this worth your while.”

“Shut up,” The man says, irritated and disinterested. Not gonna be bribed. “I'm getting tired of this shit,” he mutters as he steps up to Dean next.

Dean tenses as he feels the icy press of the scanner, shoved too hard against the knob of his spine before it's dragged up to the base of his hairline and back down again. There's a delay of about three seconds before a subtle beep, almost inaudible over the rain. Dean's in the clear and the soldier walks to Sam next.

“Oh man, oh man,” Sam whispers soft as sigh, hands on his head, fingers gripping into his own hair tighter.

“What's the ETA on transport?” The male soldier asks, distracted as he presses the scanner against the teenager's nape.

“Couple a minutes,” The female says. From his periphery Dean sees that she doesn't have her gun up at the ready anymore; she's let her guard down.

Dean's just considering whether or not he should make a move when suddenly Sam twists, a rough exhale of, _“Sorry!”_ before he plunges his switchblade into the soldier's knee. There's a brief struggle, the soldier grabbing Sam's thin wrist before throwing the kid down into the mud, lifting his pistol for a shot.

Though caught off guard, Dean takes his opening immediately, jumping to tackle the soldier and making his shot go wide. Behind him, Dean hears another quick gunshot, pistol not a rifle. Dean struggles for a second, overpowering the soldier and grabbing his gun hand to keep the pistol aimed away. He manages to get the barrel pointed at the soldier's own temple and then pulls the trigger for him. The bang is followed by a burst of brain and skull and a sentient life snuffs out before his eyes. Dean sometimes thinks it should bother him, but instead he's filled with relief.

Sam's backed up against some scrap metal, crab crawled away from the struggle, staring at the dead man with wide eyes. “Oh… oh fuck.” The kid hisses, voice tight, panting from exertion and fear, “I thought w-we were just gonna… hold them up or something.”

Dean stands, brushing the mud off as best he can. He turns to look at Jo, finds her with her gun out and the other soldier dead at her feet, a hard look on her pretty face. She gives Dean one curt nod, an _'I'm okay.'_ Dean nods back.

Jo curses suddenly, “Oh, shit!” She bends to pick up the scanner, staring at it. When her eyes flick back up there's a mix of emotion there that Dean can't parse. “Look,” She says, tossing it to him.

Dean catches it easily, turning the thing over in his hands. There's a small screen on the operator side. It's flashing red, the word in all caps reading, _POSITIVE_.

Dean's eyes jerk up to Sam's and whatever minor acceptance, whatever truce was between them snaps immediately. “Jesus Christ,” Dean curses as well. “Meg set us up?” he asks Jo, outraged, “Sent us out here to fuckin' die? Smuggling an infected kid.”

“I'm not infected!” Sam says urgently, looking up at them with desperate eyes, like a kicked puppy. Dean feels no sympathy.

“No?” He growls at the kid darkly. “So's this lying?” Dean tosses the scanner at Sam's feet. It bumps against his muddy sneakers, the flashing word on the screen as good as certain death, as good as already being dead.

Sam gazes down at it, swallowing thickly before looking back up. He makes no move to stand, must know they won't hesitate to shoot. “I can explain,” The kid says, holding up a hand.

“You better explain fast,” Jo snaps, motioning with her gun as she steps up to Dean's side, both of them standing and looking down at the terrified teen.

Sam tugs up his right sleeve, exposing a long, pale forearm. There's a bite mark, the bumpy rash of cordycep growth in his skin raised and scarred. It's not bloody, barely even pink. “Look at this!” the boy says, jutting his arm out.

“Doesn't matter how you got infected,” Dean spits.

“It's three weeks old,” Sam says, expression entirely guileless. Dean stares him down hard, looking for a trace of a lie behind the tracks of rain and splatters of mud on the boy's face, feels an uncomfortable twist of confusion in his gut when he doesn't find it.

“No,” Jo says sharply, the same no nonsense tone she'd used with Gordon. “Everyone turns within two days, so you stop bullshitting,” She demands, aiming her gun to make the kid spill the truth.

Sam doesn't even glance at the barrel, maintains eye contact, fiercely sincere, “It's three weeks. I _swear_.”

Jo hesitates, looking back at the bite and it _has_ healed unusually well, looks older than it should. The skin should be irritated, veins darkened with infection, the yellow-green sprouts open to the air rather than scarred over. Jo drops her aim but is clearly reluctant to believe. There's no cure for the infection. The whole world has been searching for one for over fifteen years and found nothing. There's no vaccine, no immunity, no coming back from a bite.

“Why would Meg set you up?” Sam implores, looking back and forth between their eyes. “Why would she choose now, this, _me_ to set you up? You almost didn't take this job—there's a million other ways—”

“Shut up,” Dean spits, turning away from the kid decisively. Sam goes silent. “I ain't buying it,” Dean tells Jo seriously. They should put a bullet between the kid's eyes and book it back to the QZ. If they hurry, they can still get back to the Fireflies before they're expecting. They can ambush those motherfuckers and make Meg pay for this.

Jo's eyes show hesitation, but before she can make a decision, there's the sound of a vehicle.

“Oh, shit,” Sam rushes to his feet.

“Jo, run,” Dean grabs her arm and pulls to get her moving, guiding further into the dark. “RUN!” he shouts when she hesitates.

Jo grabs the kid's wrist, his unbitten arm, and drags him with her. “Go, go! Move!” she shouts, running after Dean.

There's no time to argue about it so Dean just leads them through the tangled metal of highway signs and car wrecks before making a fifteen foot jump down into the next trench, boots splashing into ankle deep water at the bottom. Jo jumps fearlessly right at his side, and Sam is only a second behind, landing nimbly on his feet.

Dean knows that girl soldier called in three unauthorized people. The others will see the dead bodies and know that the three of them escaped. It'll put all the soldiers in the area on alert, looking for them. With the violence between the military and Fireflies recently, they'll probably call in back up. Soon this sector will be crawling with soldiers and if he thought this job was difficult before Dean doesn't know what to call it now—late night in the rain, outside the wall, soldiers hot on on their asses, and an extra person, a fuckin' inexperienced kid to watch out for that might actually turn and bite if they're not careful.

This is definitely one of the dumbest things Dean's ever done.

They crouch behind a rusted out sedan and big chunks of asphalt, watching as beams of light scan the area above. Dean can hear the soldiers talking about them, requesting back up, suspecting the Fireflies. He turns to look at his two companions, able to make out their faces in the murky light. Jo is grim faced, shut down emotions to get through this situation—smart, ready, capable. She'll have his back. But the hesitation is gone; she's made the decision to keep the kid and she's sticking with it.

Dean looks to Sam. The kid is pulling his sleeve down again, eyes worried and ashamed, but determined too, not avoiding Dean's gaze. His face is almost imploring. _'I'm still a person,'_ Sam's expression tries to say and Dean scowls; he figures he'll have to just believe it for now.

“Alright,” Dean speaks lowly, “We can make it through to downtown, but you—” He points at Sam, “You're gonna be Jo's shadow, do whatever she says, no questions.”

“Yeah,” Sam breathes, nodding readily. He looks grateful. “Yeah, okay.”

Jo nods, understands that he needs her to watch Sam so that Dean can navigate a safe path. “I'll watch the kid, Dean. Just get us out of this.”

One more decisive nod, and then Dean peeks over the hood of the car to take stock of their surroundings.

Behind him, Jo is whispering quickly to Sam, “Watch Dean's hands. He signals over his right shoulder. This means _stop,_ this means _quiet_ , this means _run_ , and when he holds his hand like this, he's counting down. It means _five seconds_. Don't run on one, only when he reaches zero.”

“Okay,” Sam's breathing back, voice shaky. “Okay yeah, I think I got it. Just…”

“Yeah,” Jo sighs softly, and Dean can hear it's not just empty reassurance; she means it. “I won't leave you behind.”

The path to downtown is a bit obscure, hard to memorize when the no man's land just outside the QZ walls is a mess of rubble and trenches. It's even harder in the rain, but Dean knows the direction they're going and has a mental map of places where there's cover. He leads them out from behind the car and down further into the next trench.

“Keep low!” Jo hisses, physically shoving Sam's shoulders down as they run. The boy noticeably crouches lower from then, even using his hands to balance on the uneven ground.

Dean leads them down the deep ditch, broken pipes and wires stretching between the walls on either side and crisscrossing above their heads. They jump over the obstacles in their way, indistinguishable wreckage of concrete and twisted metal, but they have to be quiet. The bottom of the trench is coated in thick mud and deceptively deep puddles and potholes. Their feet splash as they run and flashlight beams scan to follow the sound, sometimes even shooting a couple of rounds. The only thing that saves them is that they stay low and keep moving; wavering to rest for even a second while they're so exposed is as good as turning themselves in.

There's a concrete pipe at the end, a remnant of the sewers; Dean recognizes it. It extends into the wall of the ditch and leads out the other side.

“Through here,” he says lowly, motioning them to follow as he crouches into the pipe, breathing echoing too loudly in the confined space.

“Come on, kid. Follow Dean,” Jo directs, pushing Sam in front of her and taking up the rear.

Dean pauses at the exit of the tunnel but Sam stops too late, bumping into his back.

“Sorry,” The kid whispers shakily, hot breath ghosting over the nape of Dean's neck. The boy's infected and having his mouth that close makes Dean's skin crawl.

The tunnel empties into another ravine, this one a dumping ground for wreckage and clearly impassable.

Dean takes cover behind a few metal drums and considers their options, craning his neck around and listening carefully as he looks for an exit. There's a series of pipes and stacks of crushed cars set in such a way that they could climb it if they're careful. Dean scrapes his boots along the edge of one of the steel barrels to remove the caked mud before making his attempt at climbing. He steps onto the pipes protruding from the wall; they wiggle a little but he doesn't pause, climbing next onto the side of minivan and then up the bottom of a two-door convertible. Rusted metal and broken windows, slick and sharp in the rain, but he reaches the top. He peeks over the ledge, sees six soldiers before he ducks back down.

“They're fuckin' everywhere,” Dean mutters down to Jo, only a few feet behind hm. The kid is right on her tail, a mop of tawny hair and wide, frightened eyes staring at him over Jo's narrow shoulder.

They wait, legs and arms burning, wet shoes slipping, hoping the soldiers will pass. They're hard to see, dressed all in black fatigues and body armor, their flashlights blinding so that Dean can only make out a thin mirage of their figures. Three of them go to the west, one of them shines his light down into the trench as he walks but he's a good fifteen yards away downwind and doesn't spot them.

Jo and Sam creep up beside him on the side of a rusted out jeep, each of them with their hands on the ledge of the trench, waiting for Dean to declare it clear. Dean motions _'run, five seconds'_ over his shoulder, watching the guard just in front of him like a hawk, primed to move at the exact moment the soldier looks away.

“Alright, Sam, get ready to run,” Jo whispers, voice drowned in the cascade of rain. Dean's hand is still raised, counting down from five. When his fist closes, he darts forward hearing distantly behind him, “Now, run!” Hissed softly.

The three of them run past the soldier, the man far enough away that the sound of rain masks their steps.

The further they get from the QZ, the more there are remnants of the city. The last doorways and walls that refuse to fall, the vague, cracked outlines of streets and sidewalks intact in the gaps between trenches. They take cover in the remains of a building, only one wall still standing, stubborn chunks of plaster clinging to the weathered brick. Dean's about to sneak around, down into the next ragged trench, but he hears something.

Still crouched, Dean leans his back against the wall and closes his eyes, focusing on just the sounds. His ears are sharper than his eyes, but the rain is like a radio blasting static inside his skull. It takes a second, but he manages to home in on the sound. One set of foot steps, no less than ten feet away. The footsteps pause and Dean risks a glance around the wall. One beam of light pointed away, two yards between him and the soldier. More lights in the distance, too far to hit him in time.

One deep breath and Dean whips around the wall and tackles the guard at his knees. The soldier has time to curse once, fumbling for his gun, before Dean flips him over and punches straight down into his throat, throwing his whole shoulder into it. The man—no, shit, it's a fuckin' woman, couldn't tell from the helmet—her eyes bulge out and she struggles, clawing at her throat in a pitiful attempt to get air. She'll be dead in a few minutes, hyoid broken, windpipe collapsed.

Dean doesn't like doing this, resents that he has to—fuckin' stupid decision to take the established path, fuckin' stupid infected kid, fuckin' stupid bleeding-heart Joanna Beth—but he doesn't feel sorrow.

Dean drags the soldier back with him behind the wall to buy them time before the corpse is discovered. He takes the ammo from her still twitching body.

They continue on together. _'_ _S_ _ilent as a whisper, quick as a wink_ _,_ _'_ is what John Winchester used to say; Dean keeps the motto in mind with each action, determined not to make another mistake. He navigates the path and judges the timing to avoid being seen, while Jo watches their backs and makes sure the kid keeps pace.

When they jump down into another ravine, Dean immediately notes the difference here.

Not all of the trenches are sloppy and full of debris. Some of them are neat and strategically maintained by the military as lookout points, places where the patrols check in to stock up on ammo and medical supplies. This one is too uniform, too wide, too clear of cars and rubble. There's barbed wire along the upper edges, to keep people from climbing out. Dean signs _'quiet'_ over his shoulder.

As they creep forward, he can see and hear the soldiers posted above them, their lights cutting through the night like silver blades, more dangerous than a knife could be.

They creep along in a line, Sam in the middle and Jo at the rear as Dean guides them forward, hugging the walls to stay in the shadows.

They're crossing to the other side of the ditch, heading for an overhang of the broken street they can hide beneath when a sweeping light cuts through their line, right between Sam and Jo. Dean manages to grab the kid's skinny arm and pull him forward beneath the overhang, Jo skillfully diving the other way. It's a soldier above them, scanning down and his light dances through the trench a few times before it disappears. Back pressed against the muddy wall, breathing hard, heart beating in his throat, Dean bangs his head backwards in mixed frustration and relief.

Sam is panting hard beside him, lips trembling, chest rising and falling sharply, his boyish face pale with fear. “Man, that was close,” he mumbles numbly, wet locks of dark hair sticking to his forehead.

“We're good,” Dean assures as quietly as possible, if only for the sake of keeping the kid calm. If Sam panics he could get them all killed. “Get yourself together.”

Sam looks at him then, eyes wide and trusting, if a little glazed, “Yeah, okay. I'm ready.”

Jo reaches them again, expression strained. This trench is too heavily guarded with too few hiding places; Dean knows they have to get out of here. Ahead, down a dark slope, he sees another concrete pipe jutting out from muddy earth, a stream of water flowing out of its mouth, pooling on the ground. That means it's not blocked, but Dean doesn't know exactly where it leads. He weighs the risks. Underground is safer than over, and anywhere is safer than here.

He motions, _'run, quiet, five seconds,'_ for Jo.

“Stay away from those lights, Sam,” He hears Jo whispering lowly to the kid, “It's gonna be another sprint. You ready?”

Dean's countdown reaches zero before the kid can reply and they're off, running along the edge of the trench towards the pipe. Some of the soldiers must notice their footsteps because there's a thundering cascade of gunfire, too many trigger-happy guards. The aim is off, bullets ricocheting somewhere far above them, and the three of them slide down the slope, deeper into the darkness. Dean's got mud up his back and on his face, all over his hands and in his hair. He turns to check on his companions and finds them similarly dirty, Sam more than Jo, but they're alive.

They don't linger, crawling through the pipe, following its curves in pitch darkness until there's light at the other end. It's not any better here; the pipe empties into another ravine with steel girders and support beams stretched across. There's makeshift lookout post constructed on top and that's as much as he has a chance to see before someone shouts, _“There!_ _I see 'em!_ _”_

Dean grabs Jo's arm and starts all out sprinting, the pounding steps of his companions just behind him.

The sharp pops of AR rounds sound off through the air, bullets fling up water and dirt at their feet, bright white light just barely sweeping over them once before Dean skids under the lookout post and jumps through the broken wall of a building.

He splashes down into waist deep water, Sam and Jo following him into the drink. At least it washes off some of the mud. The kid didn't land on his feet and he staggers upright, coughing water. Dean ignores the boy's breathless gasps and grabs his thin arm, dragging him forward. They're in the remnants of a basement and Jo leads the way out, wading through the water and up a muddy incline. Dean takes the lead again and Jo takes Sam, the teen still wheezing and hacking as quietly as he's able.

“Can they follow us?” Jo asks.

“Dunno,” Dean shakes his head, breathing so hard his teeth are bared. “Let's not find out.”

They make it out of the trenches and into the beginnings of the city. Here you can really see what was once a civilization, struggling to stand under the weight of abandonment and ruination. There are stoplight posts, so slanted that the lights nearly scrape the ground, parking yards and steel garbage can holders. There are sidewalks and streets, cars left to rot missing wheels and doors, dented and pockmarked with bullet holes. Here the buildings still have most of their walls, some still have doors and storefront signs. Inside there's even some furniture left: desks, tables, a bookcase, broken chairs, a fridge or two. The skyline of downtown looms ever closer and Dean starts to believe they'll actually make it safely, but they're not out of the woods quite yet.

Sam is surprisingly agile on his long, gawky limbs. He takes direction well, shadows Jo closely just like Dean instructed. Occasionally, Jo will push Sam towards Dean for a few minutes so she can scout ahead or throw a bottle to distract a soldier wandering too close. Dean doesn't like the kid following him, but he has to admit Sam's good at playing shadow. He's attentive to Dean's every movement, obedient to his signals. He's trying hard.

They make it a good ways before they run into another patrol, Dean quickly signaling _'stop'_ when he hears voices.

_'Ops said they took out a couple of our boys.'_

_'It's gotta be those fucking Fireflies retaliating. Can't wait to shoot more a' them fuckers.'_

_'Captain's gonna have us out here all fuckin' night, man! I say, fuck it. Let the clickers get 'em.'_

Dean, Jo, and Sam are crouched in what was likely once a restaurant from the layout, only three of of it's walls still standing and the roof completely gone. Peeking through the remnants of a doorway, Dean sees the soldiers are moving in a search formation—at least five of them walking forward in a line side by side, about ten feet between each of them as they scan directly in front with their flashlights. They're all within sight of each other, take one out and the rest of the line will know in seconds.

“There's so many of 'em,” Sam whispers, leaning on his knees on the muddy tile, legs too tired from crouching for so long. “How are we supposed to get past?”

“They ain't spotted us yet,” Dean replies, already looking for a way to slip through the gaps of their line. “We can get through, follow, quiet.” He says the words but signals too, out of sheer habit.

Dean waits until the soldiers get close, able to hear the sucking sound of their boots pulling in the mud with each step. One of them is coming straight for the building they're hiding in.

“Shit, they're gonna be in here with us!” Sam hisses urgently, feet shifting as he gets ready to run. Dean throws an arm out and holds the boy back, turning to glare over his shoulder.

 _'Quiet'_ he signals pointedly. He can see the whites of Sam's eyes all the way around the iris, and his nostrils are flared. The boy's like a wild animal, every muscle telling him to run, but that's exactly the instinct that'll get him killed. The kind of rabbit that doesn't know better than to dart across the trail when making its escape.

Dean waits until the absolute last second, sees the soldier step through the doorless archway into the building before carefully leading Jo and Sam quietly around the other side of the broken wall, just out of the soldier's line of sight. Jo, the last to come through, passes within four feet of him. Luckily, those helmets and the rain obscure the soldier's hearing and Jo is light on her feet. It's a close call but they make it without a scratch, the flashlights of the soldiers continuing into the darkness behind them as they stealthily run to their next cover.

“Fuck that was lucky,” Jo says when they're in the clear, taking a few minutes to catch her breath behind some kind of delivery truck left broken down in what was once a street, long grass sprouting up through the fissured asphalt all around it.

Dean snorts as he leans against the wet metal of the truck on her left, his shoulder shoring her up for support and comfort; Jo doesn't lean into the touch, but she doesn't move away and that's proof enough that she needs it.

“Too damn close is what it was,” Dean grumbles, taking the time to suck in a few fortifying breaths himself. Head tipped back to let the rain wash the mud from his cheeks, he gives the stormy sky a little smile of cynical exasperation. “You had better be fuckin' worth it, kid,” He mutters.

Sam is leaning his left shoulder into the truck on the other side of Jo, but he looks up at Dean's words. “I hope so too,” Sam scoffs, something between ironic humor and nervous hope.

Dean closes his eyes and shakes his head. He keeps expecting to hate the damn brat, keeps waiting to for the kid to feel like a burden. Instead the boy has been surprisingly easy to like, surprisingly humble and grateful. That's probably the only reason they haven't ditched him already, and Sam probably knows it too. Still, even if his attitude is an act of self-preservation, Dean can't help feeling a little appreciative; this job would've been ten times harder if it had been any other teenager.

The break lasts less than five minutes before Dean gets them moving again. The patrols are thinner here, most of the soldiers having been called over to investigate the trenches for the three supposed Fireflies

They follow the street until it slopes down into a cavern, the other side more than thirty feet up, way too high to jump. Dean looks around but doesn't see any other way forward. “Jo, any idea which way?” He asks.

She's looking around too, brow creased, “Everything looks so fuckin' different in the rain.” She heads down the ravine first and Dean holds out a hand to stop Sam from following.

Jo adroitly maneuvers through the wreckage of asphalt and the thick, slippery mud, reaching the bottom without tripping. “Uh… Yeah, yeah we can get through here!” She calls back up in a whisper-yell.

Dean helps Sam when the kid slips a few times but, they each make it down without incident. There's a break in the earth down here, man-made clearly, that leads into some kind of basement. Inside, the air is thick and smells like shut-in, damp, dust; the sound of rain is finally muffled and Dean feels like he can hear his own thoughts again. There are stairs leading up that are in good condition, too good to be accidental. They're back on the established path.

“Finally out of the rain,” Sam comments lowly, pushing his sopping wet hair back from his face. It's hopeless, flops back down only seconds later.

“Yes,” Jo breathes triumphantly as she looks up the stairs, “This looks right. Come on, Sam.”

“Yeah,” the kid nods, following her up.

Dean lets them go ahead a little bit, assured that Jo knows the way, finding a heavy crate to push in front of the tunnel behind them. It won't stop someone else from coming through if they really want to, but it'll be a deterrent and a sound trap. He feels better with a barrier between them and all the soldiers they left in their wake.

“Come on up, Dean,” Sam's voice calls down to him and Dean looks back over his shoulder, sees the boy's muddy calves at the top of the stairs.

“Coming,” Dean calls back as he sets an empty bottle on top, balanced carefully on its edge so that it will fall and shatter if the crate is pushed.

Up the stairs, they exit the basement into a wide hallway where the ceiling is gone, open to the sky and the rain pours in.

“Lights!” Sam hisses, backing up to press himself to a wall, Jo and Dean quickly following on instinct. Dean's eyes search but he doesn't see anything. He's about to scold the kid of calling a false alarm when a thin sliver of illumination hits the hallway again. It's faint but clearly not natural light.

“Good catch,” He whispers over his shoulder, before sidling along the wall to get through the hallway. They can hear the distant chatter of soldiers, the sound of their boots above. A small squad, but still dangerous.

The path continues through another part of hallway or basement, this one with the ceiling intact. Dean's pretty sure this used to be part of the sewers or something, some kind of service and maintenance hub—walls of big gray bricks, shelving and wires and rusted out equipment, broken tile flooring visible in some places beneath the dirt, grass, water. He's been here before but not often and not for a while. He doesn't remember the way forward, but Jo seems to.

“Grating on the ceiling up ahead,” She warns, behind Dean's shoulder. “Stick to the sides, the shadows.”

Dean nods curtly and does as commanded. The heads up saves their asses; flashlight beams shoot down through the grating when the soldiers above hear the sounds of their footsteps splashing in the knee-high water.

“Are they gonna follow us down here?” Sam asks as they reach the end of the hallway and it continues into another concrete drainage pipe.

“We're not stickin' around to find out,” Jo answers, pushing them forward faster to escape the lights behind them. It makes noise but Jo's right, as long as they keep moving they'll make it. “You first,” She says to Dean, “Get the gate unlocked.”

“On it, boss,” Dean nods automatically.

Sam follows closely behind as Dean hunches through the narrow tunnel. He's only been through here once or twice so he feels his way through the dark. The tunnel is long but there's light at the end and a familiar locked drainage grate that Dean remembers from when he first snuck into Boston's QZ almost a year ago. Seeing it again is almost surreal, only because it reminds him how long he's been in Boston, how settled into this new life he's become.

He's not scared to step back into the wide open world beyond the QZ but he's struck by how much time has passed.

Jo takes up the rear, pistol still out as she watches their backs for any soldiers that might venture this far to catch them. It takes Dean more than two stressful minutes to get the rusty lock to cooperate with his homemade lockpicking kit.

As soon as Dean opens the thick iron-barred gate, they step out onto a collapsed freeway exit now at the foot of the city, dwarfed by massive husks of a once thriving metropolis. It remains intact enough to be familiar but eerily silent and devoid of any signs of life.

“Are we safe?” Sam asks, “The soldiers are gone?”

“Yeah,” Jo nods, still breathing hard as she flips the lock on the gate behind them. “Heard them talking—got orders to fall back.”

Dean is breathing hard too, his empty stomach cramps and he feels a bit light headed from the stress and exertion. He catches his breath with his hands on his hips, willing his heart to slow. His body is always slower than his mind to accept that the immediate danger has passed.

Sam is the opposite. The adrenaline that's been propping him up drains once he's safe and the kid stumbles as his legs give out. He falls back clumsily, sitting on the ground in the wet grass, leaning forward to put his forehead on his knees, panting thickly. The rain has thinned but it's still coming down, the sound of it hitting deep puddles filling the tense silence as they finally have enough time to remember why they're here.

Jo lets out a protracted sigh through her nose before tucking her gun into the back of her jeans and walking over to Sam, kneeling at his side. “Look,” She starts, expression going serious as she eyes him, “What was the plan? Say we manage to deliver you to the Fireflies, what then?”

Sam sighs too, nodding as he sits up enough to look back at her. “Meg… She—when she found out about my bite she—” He pauses, shakes his head at the ground, takes a breath and tries again. “She told me they have their own little quarantine zone, that there's doctors there still workin' on a cure.”

“Heard shit like that before,” Dean huffs, walking over to join the conversation. Sam looks up at Dean, an expression of restrained irritation crossing his eyes.

The kid refocuses on Jo, giving up on addressing Dean. “Meg said that,” The boy's voice is thin as he struggles to take control of his breathing, clasps his trembling hands together between his knees. “What happened to me is the key to finding a vaccine,” Sam finishes.

“Fuckin' Christ,” Dean actually laughs bitterly. It's a fairytale, or worse, a purposeful scam. He doesn't know if Sam actually believes it, if Meg managed to trick the kid too, but Dean doesn't believe this shit for a second. Maybe the Fireflies had a reason to get rid of Sam, maybe this is the cover story Meg gave the boy to tell the other squad. Hell, maybe the boy was really bitten and maybe the infection is killing him slower than usual, but it's definitely gonna kill him.

Sam actually shoots Dean a glare, insisting, “It's what she said.”

“Oh, I'm sure she did,” Dean tips his head sarcastically.

Sam's young face is overtaken by an indignant scowl and he quickly rises to his feet, “You know what, fuck you. I didn't ask for this.” His chest is pushed out in challenge, arms akimbo like he's making himself look bigger, ready for Dean to take a swing.

Dean rolls his eyes, gets that _'puppy growling at him'_ feeling again. “Me either,” he replies darkly before turning dismissively away from the teen. “Jo, what the hell are we doing here? Whatever's goin' on between this kid and the Fireflies, it's none of our fuckin' business,” Dean emphasizes with a motion like a chop of his hand, “And it's way too fuckin' risky.”

Jo doesn't seem to share his outrage. Her expression is calm and pensive, dark eyes hitting Dean with enough force that he feels glued in place. God, he hopes she's not thinking what it looks like she's thinking.

“What if it's true?” Jo asks, voice steady.

Dean recoils from the words, tossing his head to the side in indignation, pacing with nerves as he realizes with a sinking sensation of dread that Jo is thinking exactly what he feared. She wants to keep going. “I can't believe—” He shakes his head.

Jo doesn't let up, follows him even as he walks away from her. “ _What if_ , Dean?” She implores, voice stubbornly emphatic and Dean was not prepared for this. They're a team, they should agree; this fuckin' kid coming between them makes him feel the bubbling of savage energy building in his stomach. Makes him want to throw a punch.

“We've come this far,” Jo continues, her hand pulling on his shoulder so that he'll turn to face her. Dean jerks away from the touch but faces her anyway, casting a resentful gaze on her determined face. Jo isn't the least bit deterred. “Let's finish this. The guns—”

“Do I need to remind you what is out there?” Dean nearly shouts, throwing a hand behind him to motion to the darkened city skyline, bleak monument to the millions who died here before them. “This was a shitty job from the jump, but you want to sneak through a city full of infected with a kid that could turn and bite at any time?”

“I get it,” Jo speaks before Dean's even finished, her composed voice somehow more commanding than his agitated one. She holds a hand up to calm him and looks him straight in the eyes. Dean wishes she wouldn't do that. Jo knows that's his weakness, that he's almost never able to deny her anything if she looks at him like this, looks into him and makes him remember how long he's known these eyes. She's one of his oldest friends, the center of some of his best memories, the last ephemeral spark of light in a world of pitch.

Dean frowns hard enough that his teeth grit together, before his head falls forward and he glares at the ground instead. They both know she's won. Dean owes her too much and he accepted years ago that he's better as a follower than a leader. Jo's the boss for a reason and Dean has never been well-equipped for disobedience.

When he manages to lift his head, still clearly pissed off, Jo's got a fond little smile on her soft pink mouth.

She takes another step closer, intimate as she settles her hand on Dean's chest, just over his steadily beating heart. Dean distantly worries that Sam is watching, but he can't look away from her to check. “Trust me,” Jo compels, eyes warm with confidence and conviction.

How the hell is Dean supposed to say no to that?

With a glance to the side, Dean discovers Sam is still standing just a few feet away, restlessly fidgeting with the cuffs of his long sleeves again. The boy's eyes are self-conscious, skipping around to try and find a safe place to settle. When he realizes Dean is looking his way, Sam maintains eye contact, tenacious and unabashed.

Dean can't bring himself to speak but he nods and turns his back to hide the swarm of emotion trying to overpower him. He casts his eyes up to the cityscape stretched out ahead. They almost never come out this way but Dean remembers the difficulty of traversing the area when Jo smuggled him into Boston, and the two times they've met Bobby halfway for a shipment. They've never traveled to the capitol building so they'll have to make a new path, and while downtown is free of soldiers, it's got plenty of infected.

Shoulders straightening, bracing himself for the challenge, Dean asks, “Which way?”

 

**Xx--xX**

 

“Holy crap,” Sam mutters heartfelt, pausing right in the middle of the shattered asphalt and rebar of a broken street. His head is tipped all the way back, slanted eyes squinting up at the tiptops of the skyscrapers hundreds of feet above. “I guess this is what these buildings look like up close. They're so damn tall.”

“They're called skyscrapers for a reason,” Jo comments, nudging the kid's shoulder to get him moving again. Dean keeps his distance and keeps his mouth shut. He'll do this job—for Jo, and no other reason—but he's not about to get chummy with someone who's infected. He feels uneasy just seeing Jo within a foot of the kid, let alone touching him.

Both and Jo and Sam seem content to ignore Dean's sour mood, keeping up light conversation as they make their way into the heart of downtown.

“So, what happened here?” Sam asks as they ascend a slope of rubble.

This part of Boston is more intact than the zones just outside the quarantine walls, but it's certainly not in the condition it was before the outbreak. Most inner cities were just abandoned, especially business districts. Everyone was in a rush to get to their families, get to the quarantines, and while there was some looting and fires, damage was minimal. It's the decade that followed the outbreak, bombs and scavengers and nature reclaiming the infrastructure, that have turned this once shining city into a wasteland. Still, almost all of the buildings are standing, if just barely, and most streets are still passable. Unfortunately, the street they're on is not.

At the end of the upward slope of the street is a fifty foot drop. Below, Dean can see the multicolored bricks of the sidewalks, crooked and overtaken by long grass and trees. There's no way down.

“They bombed the hell out of the surrounding areas to the quarantine zones,” Jo answers Sam. She stops just beside Dean, standing at the edge of the drop off with a considering frown. “Guess they were hoping to kill as much of the infected as possible. Not that it helped.”

When Sam reaches the top he instinctively takes a step back from the edge. “Whoa. That's pretty steep. How're we gonna get down?”

“We're not,” Dean answers decisively.

“Well there's the capitol building,” Jo points distantly to the southeast, the golden steepled roof standing out between the grays and browns of steel and brick. “We'll have to go around. If we cut through these buildings, we should be able to make it by sunrise.

“Wait, _cut through_ ,” Sam says with an incredulous look. “You mean the _skyscrapers?_ ”

Jo smirks as she shrugs and turns away from the cliff, “At least you'll be able to say you've been inside one.”

“Yeah, well bragging rights don't mean much if you die,” Sam shoots back, but he follows her anyway.

“Looks safe enough,” Jo's voice is cavalier as she walks up into the open side of the building, its glossy panels of glass shattered at this level. The floor is slanted from the tilt of the building and plants are making their way inside, ivy climbing the twisted steel support beams and moss covering most of the ground. There are wires hanging through the holes in the ceiling, rain water dripping in places.

Dean trails behind, ears open and eyes sharp as he follows Jo and Sam into the slanted skyscraper, the one he could see from his window back in the QZ. It's leaned up against another building but it has been for over a decade so it's probably stable enough; Dean never imagined he'd be inside it. The windows are mostly broken in and there's evidence that some soldiers may have come through this way—bullet casings on the ground, muddy boot prints faint but visible in the springy moss that coats the floor. As far as he's aware, the military doesn't bother coming out this far, but with the recent Fireflies activity maybe they're expanding patrols.

“Military's been through here,” Dean informs curtly as he steps through the double doors Sam is politely holding open for him.

“No shit,” Jo says as she nods her head down the slanted hallway to a corpse lying not ten feet away.

Dean approaches cautiously, head tipped as he examines the body. It's a soldier, bloodied and surrounded by bullet casings. There's bites on his arms and neck, a bullet hole through his temple. “Guy's been ripped apart,” Dean concludes, “An' he's fresh too.”

“That's bad... right?” Sam asks, looking back and forth between them.

“It's not good,” Jo answers. She opens the next door, looking around before motioning for Dean to follow. “This way; and keep your eyes open. See if there's anything we can use around here.”

Dean does as told with a muttered, still slightly petulant, “Sure thing.” Jo ignores his attitude.

They entered on the fifth floor and though they're trying to reach the bottom, the way is obstructed. The building is dank and murky so Dean and Jo both click on their flashlights. At first, they go up to the sixth floor to try and reach the other side of the building and hopefully, find a stairwell down. There's only one door accessible and a dead body sits against it, cordycep mushrooms growing all over it and into the wall. It's not releasing spores at the moment, past it's reproductive cycle. The body's skull is completely overtaken by thick fungal plates, colored a sick orange-yellow-green, the textured surface glistening with dew and indiscernible bodily fluids. This thing has been here a long time.

“Fuck,” Jo mutters as she comes up behind him, takes in the scene. “Fuckin' clicker.”

“Geez,” Sam follows up, squinting at the body with a grimace of curiosity and disgust. “What the hell happened to its face?”

“That's what years of infection will do,” Jo answers soberly. “The cordycep grows through the brain tissues, optic nerves and all. Covers their whole head eventually.”

“So, what? They're blind?” Sam asks, creeping forward cautiously, head tilting as he examines the thing.

“Not really,” Dean answers this time. He grits his teeth and swallows a mouthful sour, musty spit, trying to keep his nausea under control. The smell is not something he'll ever get used to, like rotten citrus and spoilt, maggoty ham. “They see using sound, clicking,” Dean explains before bravely leaning down to grab the decaying body by the shoulders and forcibly move it out of their way.

He holds his breath as the fungus plates break, dust stirring in the air. It's not spores—it'd be obvious if this thing was spittin' spores—but it's instinct now to try and get as little of this stuff on or near him as possible.

“You mean echolocation. So they're kinda like bats,” Sam says, his grimace twisting more with disgust as his eyes follow the body down where Dean tosses it, but the kid keeps his lunch down. That's better than Dean did the first time he encountered a rotting body. This probably isn't Sam's first time.

“Same basic principle, yeah,” Jo nods. “You hear one clicking, you get down and stay quiet. If you move slow enough and stay behind them you've got a chance. Otherwise, these things will bite you faster than you can blink.”

“Damn,” Sam breathes, as Dean brushes the biggest of the mushroom growths away and shoves open the door.

The vacuum created by opening this side of the building to the open airflow of the other makes the whole floor shake and an ominous, sepulchral groan thunders through the entire structure, a sound like a monstrous call at the bottom of the sea.

“Shit, shit!” Sam mutters, grabbing onto the wall behind him, while Jo and Dean simply freeze still and wait it out. The building settles, but that was not a promising sign.

“Don't worry,” Jo says breezily, though Dean can hear the subtle doubt in her voice, “This place has been standing this long, it's not fallin' today.”

Sam doesn't look quite convinced, but he nods. As they walk into the room they've opened, Dean can hear the kid muttering. “It's cool. Everything is totally cool.”

They work their way through a series of offices on this floor, checking corners and doors, but they don't find anything except abandoned knick knacks and dust. Dean scours the cubicles for useful supplies, ignoring the pictures of their families and dogs, little _Dilbert_ and _The Far Side_ comics tacked up to the felt walls beside hand made crayon drawings. Sam walks close behind him. He disregards the kid at first, but after a minute or so Dean becomes annoyed with being tailed. Jo is already on the other side of the office, checking doors for the best path forward, so there's no excuse for Sam to be hovering.

Dean spins to face off with the teen, expression stony, arms crossing over his chest. “What?” He asks brusquely.

Sam takes a step back, but he doesn't look intimidated. The kid still looks pale and dirty, wet hair tangled and carelessly tucked behind his ears. Sam crosses his arms low across his stomach, body language closed off and apprehensive.

“Just um…” The boy starts, “Wondering if there's anything I should do.”

Dean's got the feeling that's not what's really on Sam's mind, but he's not about to pry. Dean doesn't smile, doesn't lower his aggressively defensive posture. “How 'bout you just stick close to Jo for now?”

Sam eyes Dean with a similarly dour expression before nodding, lowering his eyes in an unconscious display of submission. Thinking that's the end of the interaction, Dean goes back to rifling through the items left abandoned on the desks.

“And um,” Sam's voice adds from behind him, “Sorry. You know, for all this.”

Dean heavily exhales and his shoulders drop tiredly, not bothering to face the boy again. He's had just about enough of this shit. “I don't want your apology,” Dean snaps gruffly, “Just do what you're told and don't get us fuckin' killed. Okay, kid?”

“Okay,” the boy agrees. He stands there a few more seconds, but must eventually realize that Dean is not going to speak to him any further.

Dean listens to Sam's quiet footsteps move to his right, expecting him to just walk past. Instead the boy pauses one last time, saying, “It's Sam, by the way.”

Dean swivels his head to the kid without meaning to, perplexity overtaking his surly detachment. Sam's hazel eyes have gone gray-gold in the gloomy light, still too earnest as a smug little smile tugs on his mouth. “Not _'kid,'_ ” He clarifies.

Without another word, the teenager lopes off to follow Jo, decorative pins on his backpack glinting in the shine of Dean's flashlight. In lieu of a comeback, Dean scoffs at the boy's retreating back, but his reaction is far too late to mean anything.

Sam is stupidly difficult to dislike, even while Dean is in his worst mood.

Somehow, this manages to shake Dean out of his funk and his contemptuous irritability drains away like a physical thing, like it's being siphoned off all at once and Dean could see it pooling around his boots if he looked. Instead, he shakes his head and grabs a sharp pair of scissors from a mug proudly proclaiming a hatred for Mondays.

“Hey Dean,” Jo calls softly, “This way.”

The door at the end of the office has something wedged up against it on the other side. It's not jammed though, so Dean and Jo push together to open it, a heavy scraping sound echoing through the hall, a cascade of dust falling from the gaps in the ceiling tiles. They manage to shove it all the way open and Dean steps through, clapping the dust from his hands.

He has about one second's warning.

“Dean!” Sam yells and then Dean's hitting the floor, the slimy, snarling mouth and fungal face of a clicker all he can see.

It's tackled him. He fights, body's instincts enough to keep those snapping jaws away for a second or so, but he's painfully aware that he can't do that forever as the thing flails savagely.

After what feels like far too long, though it's truly the blink of an eye, Jo kicks the thing off of him and shoots it point blank in the head. With the protective fungal growths, it takes two shots before the thing's twitches clearly become death throes.

Dean's still on the ground but he crab walks away from the clicker, breathing hard and trying to ignore the unsettling knowledge that he nearly died.

“Holy shit,” Sam says coming up behind him, crouching and grabbing hold of Dean's shoulders. “Fuck, that was intense," The boy breathes, "You okay?”

Dean casts a disbelieving look back up at the kid but doesn't have the energy to even roll his eyes. “Yeah,” he answers curtly, shaking off the touch. “I'll live.”

Jo is breathing hard. Dean can see the damp sheen of sweat and rainwater on her chest where her shirt is unbuttoned, can see the sharp cut of her collarbone and the way her chest heaves. Yet her face is stoic, doll-like in impassivity, eyes as vacant as perfect glass. Wordless, she walks over and extends a hand to help him up.

“Got it?” Is all she asks, when Dean is on his feet.

“Yeah,” He answers, a short nod. His shoulder aches—this isn't the first time today it's taken the brunt of his fall, actually it's not even the _fifth_ —but there's no bites or scratches. He's fine. “Let's get the fuck outta here.”

“Agreed. If there's one, there's more,” Jo says, turning to head down the hallway, gun at the ready. All too quickly, the close call is forgotten. Not because it's easy to forget your own fragile mortality, but because it's necessary. Letting it preoccupy you only makes you an easier target.

Dean pulls his pistol out as well, painfully aware that he's only got seven rounds. They creep through the hallways quietly. Outside, the rain has finally stopped, though the sharp edges of the broken structure steadily drip-drip water into puddles below. The cloud cover still obscures sight of the moon and stars, but it has significantly thinned, allowing a diffuse silver glow. It makes the sky a few shades brighter than the heavy, oppressive black it had been before. The windows are broken enough to allow a rare view of the city from this high up, something people in the past probably took for granted.

Eventually they find a room that might've been a reception hub for a couple different offices, clearly connected to the seventh floor. There's a sign for the fire exit stairwell above them, up a high ledge where once a staircase might've stood.

“Up there?” Sam asks as they approach. “How—”

But Dean is already leaning his back against the wall beneath the ledge, hands held low and fingers intertwined. Jo is backing up, takes a running start. She steps into his hands with perfect aim, Dean times his lift and Jo pulls herself up.

“Um, okay. That works,” Sam finishes, blinking rapidly with his eyebrows raised, mildly impressed.

“Just make sure it's the way forward,” Dean calls up to her and Jo calls back an affirmative before briefly walking away.

When she returns to the ledge, she's nodding, “Yeah, yeah we can get through here I think.” She kneels down and holds out her hand. “Alright Sam, you're up,” the blond informs and the boy's expression drops back into something more serious and fearful again.

“I uh…”

“We won't drop you,” She assures with a raised eyebrow, shaking her hand for emphasis.

“You sure you can lift me?” Sam asks as he walks forward.

Dean scoffs, “She can lift _me_.”

Sam's eyebrows skyrocket and then he shoots Jo a considering look before taking a couple steps back and jumping to reach her hand.

Sam is capable at some things, but it's pretty clear he's never worked with a partner and doesn't know how to move to take the stress off Jo's shoulder. Dean ends up getting his hands underneath the boy's sneakers to help push him up.

“Come on,” Jo grunts as she pulls. “You got it—grab the ledge. There you go.”

With Sam safely over Jo exhales hard and tries to clap the sting out of her likely sore hands. Her gaze is warm, good humor that Dean suspects is a facade. It's too soon after his encounter with a clicker, but then again, what was he expecting? It's not like Jo would be the type to brood and cry.

“Come on big boy,” She says, reaching down to him. “You're next.”

A running start, a jump, and Jo pulling back with her full body weight gets Dean up high enough that he can grab the ledge. She grabs the straps of his backpack, helping to pull him over and up to his feet. Sam is standing back and now he's doing nothing to hide how impressed he is.

“Damn, Jo. You're stronger than like, most the people I've ever met,” The kid says.

“You callin' Dean fat?” She asks with a deadpan expression that could easily be mistaken for offense.

Sam though, doesn't back down or issue apologies. Instead he smirks a little and casts his eyes to Dean. There's something hesitant about his words, but his snarkiness covers it as he says, “Well not all of us can keep a girlish figure at his age.”

“Hey screw you,” Dean retorts, surprised to find a teenager somehow fitting into the banter he and Jo usually keep up to get through tough spots. “I ain't even that old.”

“Yeah well, if you wanna be eventually then we better get moving,” Jo comments before leading them forward through the next tilted hallway.

Making their way through is a challenge but they stay quiet and work together for the journey. Clickers make a certain screeching sound that gives some warning. They only encounter one more on their way through the seventh floor and all three of them have to huddle together to hide behind a desk. The phelgmy clicking sounds and screeches, coupled with the sound of snapping teeth less than a yard away has Sam shaking where he's pressed against Dean's side. They have to wait until the thing takes a few steps away before Jo throws a brick to distract it. After that, it's relatively easy to escape over a scaffolding, low enough that they can each jump and climb, but high enough that the blind infected can't follow them.

On the other side, they find the stairs down. “I think that's it,” Jo says, swallowing thickly over her heavy breathing. “Sam, you alright?”

The kid is bent over, hands on his knees as he pants. His skin is flushed and shines with a layer of sweat, his eyes are glossy but he still looks lucid, no trace of the dangerous shell-shocked panic that can get someone killed. “Other than shitting my pants?” Sam asks, with a wobbly grin. “I'm fine.”

Jo lets out a clipped huff of laughter and easily vaults over the banister to the passable section of the stairs, “Well let's go.”

Sam doesn't immediately follow, glancing at Dean first. Dean gives him a nod and motions the boy forward. They manage to make it down to the fourth floor before the stairs are blocked by too much rubble to continue.

“What do we do?” Sam asks. “We can't go back around.”

Jo frowns but then turns into a hallway, walking up the incline fearlessly. “This way,” She directs, leading them to a broken window with a window washer's rig still hung there. It's rusted but looks sturdy enough, though Dean's face twists into an uncontrollable scowl. He's never been a fan of heights.

“Yeah,” Jo mutters absently, shaking the rig firmly once. “This'll hold. We can walk around the edge of the building, reach the other side of the stairs.” The wind whips her golden hair back around her shoulders as she steps onto the ledge and then hops down onto the steel grating. “This is fuckin' crazy. Just don't look down!”

Sam leans out the window to look at her, “Wha—? Are you serious?”

“C'mon, Sam,” Jo motions over her shoulder, already walking along the rig.

The boy shakes his head, sucks in a deep breath, lets it out in a forceful woosh, and then jumps up onto the window ledge before carefully easing himself down onto the window-washing rig. “Don't look down, don't look down,” the boy speaks lowly to himself. When Dean jumps down behind him, the whole thing shakes and Sam jumps a few inches in the air.

“You're okay,” Dean affirms, “Just walk forward.”

Sam's hazel eyes shine in the wan, silver moonlight glowing in a misty halo through the clouds, and he nods following after Jo and jumping onto the next window-washer basket. The wind this high up is icy cold and whips their hair and clothes around mercilessly. When they reach the corner of the building, they have to shimmy along a wide ledge, luckily on the side of the slanted building where they're leaning back against the support of the windows. They hop in at the next broken window and just as Jo predicted, they find a way down the blocked stairway.

“I'm not sure how much more I can take,” Sam mutters as he walks down the stairs, swiping his hands over his face, leaving streaks of dirt in the mixed water and sweat.

“Hey,” Dean nudges the boy's narrow shoulder on his way down, “You can take it.”

Sam coughs in something between humor and doubt. “Yeah thanks,” he says but Dean can tell the kid doesn't mean the words.

“You don't have any other choice,” Dean says lowly. “'Cept dyin'. And you don't look the type.”

“To choose death?” Sam asks, following Dean's cue and speaking low enough to keep their conversation from Jo's ears where she's descending the stairs ahead of them. He still has a teasing tone, covering his exhaustion with thin sarcasm.

“To give up,” Dean replies pointedly, subtly nodding his head to the boy's right arm.

Sam slows mid step, setting his foot down on the next stair and pausing entirely. His eyes narrow in Dean's direction, confused maybe but not doubtful anymore. Dean meets the gaze and then motions the boy forward before Jo can turn around and tell them to get the lead out. Sam's brows pull together briefly, but he just huffs and turns back to their path.

It takes some time—at one point Dean has to sneak around and take out seven infected with a combination of a soldier's discarded revolver and a handy crowbar, while Jo stays with Sam—but they manage to make it down to the first floor. There's still no way out to the street, so they go lower, down into the subway access beneath the building.

It shouldn't be long before they find a way up and out, back into the city proper, but in the meantime being underground with the knowledge of the huge unstable building above makes Dean more than a little claustrophobic. They walk quickly.

“You know,” Jo says, breathing harder from their pace, “I was thinkin'… after we get back, we can take it easy for a little while.”

Dean actually laughs, short and sharp. “ _You_ want to take it easy?” He asks. Jo has never been the type to sit still long. There's too much out there to be gained and lost, and she's worked too hard to build herself up. She's not the type to reach a false peak and stop climbing.

“Yeah? So what? You're the one who's always going on about layin' low,” She counters.

“And you always brushed me off,” Dean reminds.

“Well,” Jo says, voice going softer with her sincerity, “I won't this time.”

“I'll believe that when I see it,” Dean replies. Not that the idea of having Jo to himself all day, of watching her sharp edges soften from rest, is distasteful. No, Dean'd be more than alright with that. But complacency just isn't in Jo's blood, and he loves that about her. If he's honest with himself, which he only allows every so often, Dean prefers the adventurous lifestyle too. It's no accident he does what he does, when he could so easily have joined the military or manual labor for mid-range pay.

“Hey guys?” Sam calls from a little ways off, voice echoing on the concrete. “I found something.”

It's a body, Dean sees as they approach. Sam's squinting at it in the murky light, but the illumination of Dean and Jo's flashlights make the scene far more clear. The man was killed by infected, judging by the chunks missing from his throat and arms, and not that long ago. The body's been down here for about two days at most.

“Shit,” Jo says, crouching, “He's a Firefly.” The emblem on his sleeve makes it clear enough.

“These guys aren't doin' well in or out of the city,” Dean shakes his head, getting a slightly ominous feeling about the meet up. “Let's just hope there's someone alive to meet us at the drop-off.”

“There will be,” Sam assures, voice shaken as he examines a scrap of paper on the ground not far from the body. “I think this guy was from the quarantine zone. Just… an accident, I guess.”

“What's it say?” Dean asks.

“Huh?” Sam blurts, wide eyes flicking up once before he ducks his head. “O-oh. Just, um that he was heading out from the QZ I think. It's kinda blurry.”

Jo brushes the dirt from her damp jeans as she stands, “Well whoever this guy was, he lost the fight with whatever did this. We shouldn't stop movin', 'less we wanna end up like him.” She starts walking off again, but Sam is looking a little too fidgety.

Dean narrows his eyes and bends to grab up the paper. Sam stands back and lets him, but he chews on his chapped bottom lip. It's a description of a boy, approx. 5'9'' with light brown hair and hazel eyes, mole on his left cheek. Before Dean can even finish taking in all the words, Sam speaks.

“It's about me,” The boy mumbles, eyes cast down to the disfigured corpse. “This guy… he was supposed to go to the capitol building to help get me to the doctors.”

That's exactly what the rest of the smudged, blood stained instructions say. Dean crumples it and drops it back to the ground.

“C'mon,” Dean says, grabbing the kid's shoulder and pulling him past the dead body, “This way. We're almost out.” Sam moves away from Dean's touch, but he walks, not glancing backwards.

 

**Xx--xX**

 

By the time they make it back out into the street, despite the harrowing trip, all Dean can feel is a rush of relief at the smell of fresh air. Especially after the rain, the air is crisp and cold and it clears the dank, dusty, rotten odor of the mouldering offices and dead bodies from his nose. Looking back, he sees the towering building behind him and it's amazing to no longer be inside it, the mounting claustrophobia draining away once he's got solid ground beneath his boots and the open sky above.

“Holy shit,” Sam huffs as he climbs up the slope of cracked asphalt, looking up at the sky with a smile. “We actually made it.”

“Everyone okay?” Dean asks. Sam can't hold in his smile, nods eagerly.

Jo shrugs, “As ever. Let's move.” She jumps down over a gigantic chunk of asphalt and earth. Sam follows closely behind her.

“So, you guys are pretty good at this stuff,” The boy comments as they walk down the wreckage littered streets.

“It's called luck, and it _will_ run out,” Dean replies in warning. “So we gotta keep pace. Which way we goin', Jo?”

The blond spins in the street, examining the buildings for the correct course. “Um, capitol building's in this direction.”

Jo leads the way and Sam stays at her side while Dean takes up the rear, eyes open for sounds of infected. Most, especially the clickers, are stronger than your average man, their bodies now missing the natural human instinct to reserve injurious force; the same way the human jaw is capable of breaking its own teeth, but no living person could consciously do it. The infected are ruthless, but they're not entirely stupid nor are they invincible. The can still feel the cold and prefer moseying around buildings rather than out in the open. If there are any infected around, the three of them remain silent enough not to draw the hoards from their hiding places.

“Dean,” Jo barks. “There's a door here.” She's standing in front of a corrugated metal garage door with a chain pulley that can be used to open it manually. “I'm thinkin' we can cut through.”

“Yeah, that worked out great last time,” Sam mutters under his breath as he quietly examines their surroundings. At Jo's offended scoff, the boy turns, realizing he was heard. “Sorry— I'm just sayin',” He defends with a careless shrug.

“I thought you said we were good at this,” Jo argues with a singular raised eyebrow.

“Pretty sure Dean said it was luck,” Sam counters.

“Alright you two,” Dean interrupts, walking purposefully between them to reach the chain and begin pulling. The door is rusted and lets out a wretched shriek as it begins to move, but at least it _does_ move. Dean's tugging, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, sore shoulders already burning after just a few pulls.

Jo smacks his arm, but her gaze is turned down the street. “Shhh-shh,” she orders.

Dean has to hold the chain to keep the door from dropping straight back down. “What?” Dean snaps breathlessly, “I don't hear anything.”

No sooner than he's finished his sentence does he suddenly hear the low groaning and shuffling of many footsteps. The three of them all look off into the distance, but there's nothing to see at the moment. There will be soon. Very soon.

“Okay, double time,” Jo orders, and her voice actually shakes. They're out in the open and they've already used too much ammunition getting through the skyscraper. They can't take on a crowd of runners. They'll die if this door doesn't open in less than twenty seconds.

“Oh shit,” Dean hisses, pulling so hard that he feels the muscles of his sides and chest stretch painfully. His palms are numb from the cold and pain, and all he can think about is not letting the chain slip.

“They're coming,” Sam warns, huddling closer to the door.

“I know!” Dean grunts, angry. Like he doesn't already know their lives are on the brink. The infected are visible now and Dean can hear that calm voice in his head counting down the yards, counting down the seconds 'til they die. Twenty yards, fifteen yards, ten.

“That's good, that's good!” Jo says, ducking under the door though it's only a few feet off the ground. “Sam! Come on. Help me.”

The teen follows her under and they struggle to hold up the heavy door. Five yards, three, _two,_ _ **fuck.**_

“Okay, Dean, go!” Sam's voice echoes through the metal and Dean immediately lets go of the chain and drops to the ground, sliding under the door, careful to dodge the legs of his companions.

He's not quite fast enough. The infected are right on him, grabbing at his ankles and ready to sink in their teeth. One good kick gets him enough leeway to get inside the garage.

A split second before his legs are even clear, Dean yells, “Drop it!”

The heavy door slams back down and Dean scrambles up to his feet, shirts twisted and rucked up under his armpits. All three of them back away from the door, the metal vibrating with the force of infected beating against it. Sam even jumps a little at the sound of a one particularly piercing scream. Another close encounter with the reaper, but the relief of still being alive never gets old.

“Um, you got something on your shoe,” the boy says softly and Dean looks down to see a cadaverously pale, clawed hand clinging to the toe of his boot, nothing but shredded meat and slivered bone at the forearm. With a sound of disgust Dean kicks it off.

“Gross,” Sam grimaces.

“Okay,” Dean exhales sharply, turning away from the door to examine where they've ended up, “So how do we get out of here?” He asks. It's a large garage, an antique truck sitting on flat, rotted tires right in the center. There's a broken metal staircase leading upwards, and enough crumbling concrete that Dean's sure some of the walls between these buildings have been knocked down.

“Guess we'll find out,” Jo replies. “You okay, kid?”

“Fine,” Sam answers promptly, “Just ready to get the hell away from _that_ ,” the boy nods towards the still shaking door, the screams and clawing of the infected reverberating through the empty garage.

Dean's startled to feel a slender hand slide against the back of his neck, and he turns his head to see Jo peering up at him. “Okay?” She asks mildly, as close to a gentle tone as he'd heard her when on a job.

She's checking him for the same detached, shell-shocked panic that Dean's been watching Sam for. He's honestly a bit amused, thinks maybe being around a kid brings out a bit more of Jo's nurturing side. He can't remember the last time Jo showed concern for him so directly, especially while they're still working. He raises one eyebrow and smiles for her. Dean's almost died so many times that if he let it traumatize him, he'd spend the rest of his short life muttering to himself, rocking in a corner. It's always terrifying, but Jo knows he's resilient.

She actually smiles back at him, closed lipped but pleased.

Dean looks around for Sam, sees the teen wandering to the other side of the big truck, cutting him from their line of sight. He takes the opening.

Dean leans in presses a kiss to Jo's mouth just on whim. He hasn't kissed her all day, hasn't since that argument and she can't blame him for being unprofessional when she started it. Jo kisses back heedlessly, hot and quick, nipping at his lips but they keep their tongues in check. For a split second, despite the chorus of infected still echoing around them, all Dean can think about is how much he's looking forward to getting home. He's only just started to call Boston home and the title never felt quite right until now. It settles inside him and he's not afraid.

Dean hopes Jo was serious about taking some time off.

As Sam's footsteps move around the side of the truck, fast approaching where he'll be able to see them, Jo pulls away, leaving Dean suspended for a moment longer, eyes closed and still breathing in the warm air for the last trace of her scent. She sidesteps Dean so smoothly, surveying the way forward with a cool, mindful eye, and it's impossible to tell what just passed between them. Dean straightens out his face by frowning meanly; he's somewhat embarrassed at the idea of Sam seeing him when he's feeling dopey and idiotic, and anger is the easiest thing to fake on short notice.

“Pretty sure we can get up to the second floor here,” Jo says, pointing to a hole in the ceiling. “But there's no way up. Think we could stack enough of this shit to climb?” She asks Dean.

There's workbenches and tool boxes, crates and of course the big ass truck. Yeah, they can make their way up, but Dean doesn't have to frown to cover up his feelings anymore. The prospect of that much physical labor enough to drain the last of the gooey warmth from his chest.

“Yeah,” Dean sighs. “You two work together. You're no use to anybody if you pull a damn muscle.”

The three of them set to it, Dean grunting through the effort, making sure they build a sturdy enough base that no one gets injured on the way up. It takes about ten minutes but the infected at the door lose interest, still screeching intermittently and shuffling around outside, but no longer filling the whole room with noise.

“So Meg thinks your immune, huh?” Jo asks while she and Sam are half carrying a workbench together. It's slow going, a heavy metal thing that has both of them straining as its legs scrape the concrete floor with headache inducing screeches, but they manage. Dean silently tunes into the conversation, still working on his own.

“That's what she believes,” Sam grits out, skinny arms shaking a little as he shuffles backwards with his end of the workbench.

“Well, how were you bitten?” Jo prods, short breaks between her words from speaking through exertion, “I mean, you must'a been—somewhere you shouldn't—to find—an infected in the zone.”

“Yeah, I'd—I'd sneak out,” Sam grunts as he goes up the short step a the back of the garage, towards the hole in the ceiling. He speaks breathlessly, but as obnoxiously candid as ever. “I was in this, military boarding school.”

“And you'd sneak out?” Jo asks, sounding surprised and fascinated. Dean feels the same. Sam doesn't seem the rebellious type.

“You know,” the kid explains, voice skipping pitch from the strain before they reach the structure Dean's building and Sam lets the work bench drop hard. He's wipes his dusty hands on his jeans, and continues, “Explore the city, see the sights. I was in the mall when I ran into infected.”

Jo's eyebrows shoot up her forehead as she leans against the edge of the table, impressed and curious, “That place is completely off-limits. How the hell did you get in there?”

Sam's already walking past her, going back for more furniture and crates, “I…had my ways,” The boy answers, tone enigmatic and teasing. “Anyways, one of those—think you guys called 'em runners?—bit me. And, that was that.”

There's a short lull in the conversation, the reminder of Sam's bite quelling the bout of good humor. Dean decides to cut in, lifting a crate as he says, “An' you were with Meg when it happened?”

Sam starts a little, almost like he forgot Dean was there before he shakes his head. “No. I went to her for help afterwards,” the kid answers.

“Knowing her, I'm surprised she didn't shoot you,” Dean comments, shooting a look over at the boy. He's still not really sure where he stands on the issue. Sam's been fine so far, no signs of infection, no twitching, muddled gibberish words, or slurred speech. He's got no fever, chills, or fully dilated pupils. It's been more than half a day since they met the boy and he's been astonishingly _fine_. That doesn't mean Dean believes the boy's story.

“She almost did,” Sam chuckles darkly, his face creasing up into this puppyish pout. “Hope she's alright.”

“I told you. She's gonna be fine,” Jo assures firmly. Sam forces a smile and nods once but they don't speak any further. It takes just under an hour to set up a tower of crates, workbenches, spare tires, and toolboxes. Once it's up and stable, it takes only twenty seconds to scale, Dean going first. Since he's heaviest, if the makeshift ladder holds steady for him then Jo and Sam shouldn't have anything to worry about. Dean makes it up easy, footholds giving barely a wiggle, and once at the top he reaches his hand down to help first Sam and then Jo. When all three of them are up, Dean reaches down and knocks over the crates at the very top, just in case the infected do manage to get through that door.

The room they end up in is massive, wide open with almost nothing in it and at first Dean can't figure out what kind of room it actually is. Then he takes in the details, shelves and cases along the walls, tarnished bronze plaques, a dirt crusted sign by a blocked doorway with faint edges of names and arrows. It's a museum. Or it _once_ was.

They walk through, Dean peeking into the next room, ears open for sounds of movement. Just as he's inching forward, he tenses at a loud shattering behind him. Whipping around, Dean sees Sam frozen like a statue, an expression of comical guilt and remorse on his face, the chunks of a porcelain vase at his feet.

“Shit. Sorry, sorry. That was me,” the kid says.

“Yeah, no shit,” Dean snaps, peeved at being startled by the loud noise. “Jo,” Dean says deeply, reminding her to keep an eye on the damn kid.

“Sorry!” Sam insists, this time with a whiny edge that only makes him sound younger.

“C'mon,” Jo snaps her fingers, “Stay close to me.”

Dean continues to scope out the next rooms. There're trails in the dust of shuffling, directionless steps, the way that infected aimlessly meander, tracing circles as they wait to attack or die. He can't tell how old they are, but it's always better safe than sorry. Behind him, Jo and Sam walk side by side, keeping up low conversation every so often.

“What is this place?” Sam wonders aloud, spinning as they walk to look around at the old exhibits. There's paintings on the walls, some statues and carvings, showcases with assorted antiques—some of them still have the glass intact, the pieces lined up neatly with little parchment labels beneath each one.

“It's an old museum,” Jo answers the boy, and Sam actually mutters the word as though testing it out. He's probably never heard the word in conversation, definitely never visited one. “Some of these things are hundreds of years old.”

“ _Really_? Wow…” The boy mumbles, wandering around in a wider circle, reaching out to touch things as they pass. Dean doesn't bother telling him not to. There's no future generations waiting to see these exhibits, no reason to keep the destructive oils of human skin from the old objects. Most are as worthless now as the dirt on the ground.

“I read about places like this,” Sam informs. “I used to read, a lot… Not much else to do, you know?” Jo only hums in response, but Sam keeps going. “I read about—oh geez, what's it called… _La Gioconda_ the _Mona Lisa_ , in Paris. I think they kept it in like, this glass pyramid. And there's sarcophagi in London and a _Rosetta Stone_.”

“Wow,” Jo laughs teasingly, “Big history buff?”

“No, just… like I said, I'd read a lot—anything I could get my hands on back at the orphanage,” Sam stumbles a little on the last word, like he didn't mean to say it. Jo graciously doesn't pry.

“Well this place is more American history,” She explains, squinting at some of the art like she's got any clue about it. “Looks sort of civil war-ish to me.”

“Right,” Sam nods, “The war over slavery. Abe Lincoln and all that.”

“Yeah, that's basically all there is to know about it,” Jo laughs. She didn't complete any further than fifth grade so she probably hasn't heard more about it than that either. Of course, back in the day, Ellen would sometimes force the kids at the Roadhouse to sit inside and read books, teach them the three R's. Dean remembers that the practice slowly died as hope for rebuilding the world dwindled. Soon their _'classes'_ had a lot more to do with how to pick a lock or wriggle out of being tied up.

The bottom floor is barricaded so they head for the roof, making their way through the building quietly, encountering a stray infected every so often. Once, Dean makes the mistake of opening a door and finding a huddle of them, convulsing to the beat of their own hissing breaths, a sick parody of an overcrowded dance club that Dean's only seen in movies. He closes the door and wedges a sturdy chair under the handle, deciding to keep the exploring to a minimum after that.

It's slow going at first, the dark and the unfamiliar cluttered landscape making it harder to step lightly. As time passes though, the light from the windows turns to a dull gray. On the 4th  floor, the staircase is blocked, barricaded like someone on the upper floors shoved everything they could down the stairwell to stop the infected coming up. Worse, some of the infected are still there, standing around the barricade and clicking futilely. Dean closes and blocks the door to the stairs and they set off for another way up.

“So the civil war,” Sam says, toying with the edge of a faded confederate flag. “You think any of it really even mattered? I mean, all these soldiers fighting just for the world to end up like this.”

“ 'Course it mattered,” Jo answers. “Just 'cause the future's fucked doesn't mean you stop fighting for the present. They couldn't know what was gonna happen to us, but even if they assumed the worst, they couldn't just give up.”

“Well, yeah,” Sam shrugs, “But it's just seems a little pointless, doesn't it? To fight for something so hard and have it mean nothing.”

“It didn't mean nothing,” Jo insists. “Sam, listen, I'm not much one for advice, but my mom—well, she had some real gems. Ain't that right, Dean?”

“Your mama?” Dean asks, remembering the combination of nurturing kindness and unbreakable iron that made up Ellen Harvelle's core. She was one hell of a woman, and Dean has unending respect for her, even if as a teen he'd hated her a little. Unlike his dad, Ellen was somehow never too busy to keep her eye on Dean and call him on his bullshit, more than once busting him for stealing or smoking or shirking responsibility. He can't quite recall her face anymore, but remembers her chestnut hair and the smell of whiskey and chamomile on her clothes, her eyes a few shades lighter than Jo's chocolate, more of a sepia. The details are blurred, but he can almost picture the knowing expression she'd give him whenever he sat down at her bar, like she could read right through him.

“She was a character, alright,” Dean agrees. “Tougher 'n me an' Jo combined, and yeah she always had advice. Too much of it for my tastes.”

“Yeah,” Jo drawls the word playfully, “Well that's just 'cause you've always been too stubborn to listen.” Dean waves off the comment and Jo ignores him. “Anyway, she used to say that everything is a decision, even when you don't want it to be. Choosing not to decide or trying to forget is still a decision, a choice of inaction. We're all gonna be dead one day, Sam, infected or not. You let fear of the future paralyze you in the present and when that future comes, you'll find you've got nothing to feel but ashamed.”

Sam's silent in thought for a moment before he nods his head slowly, “Yeah… Yeah, that makes sense. So, you're saying, the soldiers had to fight, 'cause the present means nothing if you don't pretend your actions mean something to the future.”

“Um,” Jo's brow creases. “Well, yeah. If that's what you got out of it.” Sam chuckles and Jo shoves the kid's shoulder, “Hey, I told you I wasn't good with advice.”

“Alright,” Dean says as he backtracks to a door blocked with the least debris. They've been through all the rooms on this floor this is the only doorway out that's not entirely collapsed. “We can get through here,” He says grabbing onto the edge of a wide wooden beam, nearly as thick as Dean is himself. He lifts, feeling the stabbing, blistering heat of his spent muscles straining against the weight.

“Watch your head,” he warns and Jo ducks through, Sam not far behind. Dean feels his grip slipping on the polished wood, clammy sweat and numb fingers. “Hurry. Go, go, go— _shit!_ ” He exclaims as his muscles give and the beam drops with a deafening crash, more debris falling through the doorway knocking Dean straight on his ass. For one terrifying second, he remembers the man he shot in the head this morning, the man whose mask had broken.

But nothing lands on him and Dean is fine. The bad news is that he can tell from one look that there's no way he can get through the door safely, no way Sam and Jo can lift it from their side.

“Dean? _Dean!_ ” Comes Jo's muffled shout, tremulous with fear.

“I'm alive!” Dean calls back thickly, coughing through the billowing dust and ineffectually waving it away from his face. “Just stay put. I'll make my way around to you,” Dean leans closer to speak through the wall of rubble.

“Oh… Shit, Jo, they're here!”

That's Sam's voice and it's followed by an all too easily recognizable throaty screech. Dean's stomach drops out and his insides feel hollow and stuffed heavy at the same time.

“Jo?” He demands worriedly.

“Run. _Ru_ _n!_ ” Jo shouts and then Dean can't hear anything but pounding footsteps retreating followed by high pitched howls and croaky clicking.

“Shit,” Dean curses, backing away with both hands combing back through his hair.

His fear keeps him rooted for less than a handful of seconds before Dean takes off, searching for some other exit he didn't notice before. He soon finds a narrow crevice through a wall. It's dark on the other side so he can't make out much; even shining his light through reveals nothing but dust motes and vague outlines, but it's definitely a room. It'll be a tight fit, the kind that you can get stuck in, which is the last thing you want with infected around. Dean weighs his options and decides he'd rather take the risk than waste time searching for another option. He takes one breath and then exhales as much as he can, pushing out air until his throat squeaks drily, making his chest smaller as he sidles through the gap. The exposed brick scrapes at him through his shirts and snags on one of his belt loops, and he stumbles into the next room.

Dean freezes still.

There's clickers, three of them, right here in this god damn room. The closest one twitches towards him but doesn't actually know where he is. It starts shuffling forward, arms out, jerkily sweeping the air. The other two are just standing there, not reacting even as the bright beam of Dean's flashlight illuminates their fungal faces. Dean backs up gingerly, breathing in slow and quiet, despite how his scorching, empty lungs protest. He wants to take a big gulp of oxygen, wants to run, but that'll just get him killed.

Dean sidesteps along the wall, carefully maneuvering around anything that could clatter or crack. He steps on a creaky board and freezes again, biting his lip hard, but the infected don't seem to care. This old building probably creaks enough on its own. There's one door leading out and thank the fuckin' lord it's actually intact, but there's a clicker right next to it.

Even assuming he could get it in one hit, killing one means alerting the others and Dean can't take two at once. He holds his breath as he walks to the door, takes ten seconds to turn the knob and pauses when the latch snicks open. When he looks up, the clicker has swiveled its head towards him, eyeless face only a foot away.

Dean's heart is rabbiting, but his mind is still crystal clear from the adrenaline. He holds still, eyes tracing the lipless mouth and yellowing teeth, gluey blobs of mucus drool dripping down the thing's chin. Dean follows a drip of it, watching as the drool slides down sallow, lavender flesh, pooling at breasts and soaking into a torn t-shirt. Dean counts to twenty and the thing starts clicking. The chirps are choppy and shrill but Dean remains perfectly immobile. Maybe it could make out the shape of him from clicking, but more likely, these things are tuned to sense movement rather than objects in the environment.

Dean pretends his joints have locks and imagine flipping the deadbolt on each one. He relaxes his muscles and imagines the tingles of exhaustion are actually liquid rock pouring through him and solidifying, calcified like a fossil, like he's part of the museum. He's just part of the scenery. He's nothing.

The infected turns its head, still clicking half-heartedly, but sweeping its sights in another direction. It doesn't even seem that alert, already slipping back into a twitchy trance, the closest these monsters get to sleep.

Dean pushes the unlatched door open, just enough to step through. As he's finally easing into the next room, the door squeaks loudly on its rusted hinges and the clicker whips to face him. It's jaw nearly unhinges around the explosive scream it lets out and Dean quickly slams the door and reaches for the big cabinet next to him. It's a wardrobe type thing, a gray confederate uniform pinned on display inside; it's heavy as fuck and crashes to the floor with a thunderous boom. It keeps the door closed long enough for Dean to find more things for a solid barricade. He doesn't half-ass it either, well aware that no matter how worried he is, neglecting this to get to Jo faster could result in all of them dying.

By the time Dean can't see the door behind the furniture he's shoved in front of it, sweat is beading off his skin and his damp clothes cling. He heads off, silent as a whisper, quick as a wink. He slips by infected that are running blindly to the barricaded door, attracted by the noise. These ones are even uglier than usual, the fungus completely overtaking their head and neck with layered plates. They wobble as they walk, one so heavily injured it's crawling more than walking. Some one injured it; if it was Jo and Sam, Dean doesn't want to think about the possibility that they didn't get away. As he searches he closes and blocks the doors behind him, separating the infected, making sure they won't ambush him from behind.

He's scanning hysterically, listening to every little noise, and his anxiety ratchets up higher and higher the longer he goes without finding a trace of Jo or Sam.

The sound of gunshots reveals their location, but that's the last sound he wants to hear. Dean takes off running in that direction, knowing that the situation has to be dire for Jo to risk shooting around clickers. The sound will alert all of them in the building.

“Sam, stay back!” Dean hears Jo yell and he kicks through a set of double doors towards the sound, the curled golden handle clattering across the floor.

The first thing Dean sees is Sam being slammed into a wall.

“Dean!” Sam shouts, struggling with a clicker that looks twice the boy's size. Sam is fighting hard, hands around its thick throat to keep that lethal, snarling mouth as far away as he can. Dean lifts the leg of a table from the ground, the solid wood weighty in his hands, and swings like a baseball bat. There's enough force behind it to crush a skull; he knows from experience.

The head trauma makes the infected seize up, limbs going stiff before it topples over. It gives a few more aborted twitches but it is dying.

Jo's savage shout a few yards to his left draws Dean's attention and he lifts the table leg again. Before he can get off a swing, Jo manages to kick the clicker's knee out and lift her gun for a head shot. It falls, two more dead ones lying on the ground beside it.

Dean rushes to Jo, grabbing her arm and looking into her face. “Jo,” he says, and it's the only word he can get out.

She's paralyzed, face ashen and eyes vacant, no emotion reading through at all. Dean shakes her.

“Jo!”

She blinks.

“I'm fine,” She says, robotic but resolute. Dean believes her.

“Are there more?” He asks. Jo just stares at him, stares like she's never seen him before in her life. Dean's about to shake her again but Sam answers.

“No,” the kid gasps. “No, the other rooms were empty. These ones chased us. W-we tried to hi-ide,” Sam's voice starts to break and Dean can't handle two stupefied companions.

“Yeah, okay. Let's go, alright. There's definitely more of 'em,” Dean cautions. Jo finally seems back from it, blinking hard and straightening to her full height.

“I saw a fire escape,” She says, pulling away from Dean abruptly and stepping over the dead bodies on the floor. “This way.”

“Jo,” Dean says, not liking the hard clip to her tone.

“ _This way,”_ She commands and there's no room for argument. Dean hitches his backpack up, grabs Sam by the nape of his neck and steers the boy forward.

The fire escape is right where Jo claimed and there's only one infected, stumbling around blindly, harsh clicks interspersed with pinwheeling arms seeking prey. Dean steps forward, pulling a shank from the side of his bag but Jo holds up a fist to stop him. Wordless, she bum rushes the thing when its back is turned and grabs it, hanging on like a monkey while it flails. She's got her own shiv and she shoves it into the infected's throat, primal shouts as she stabs in and out, arterial spray painting elegant lines onto the opaque window.

When it drops, twitching and bleeding out, Jo stands over it like the kind of ruthless warrior legends are made of. The wan light of the window outlines her slender silhouette, tossed up strands of hair and dripping weapon in her fist.

“God _damn_ ,” Sam exclaims in a burst of convulsive, uneasy laughter. “Swear to God, you're the toughest chick that ever lived.”

Jo laughs too, a sound like shattering, and she shakes her head, throwing the now broken handmade shiv to the ground with a metallic ting. “Yeah well, this tough chick is fuckin' _done_ with the close calls. C'mon this'll get us up to the roof,” She nods to the window and Dean sees the rusted fire escape through the glass.

Jo shoves the window open, allowing a clear view of the outside. Daylight is breaking and Dean can't remember the last time he was so grateful to see it. Of course, he knows he thinks that every time he's had a rough night, but just like the relief of being alive, some of life's little pleasures never get old. He hates summer for the heat but always forgets to enjoy the early sunrises until they arrive.

He stops Jo before she can hop over the sill of the open window. She looks battered to hell and her eyes are glassy. “How you holdin' up?” Dean asks.

She looks at him for just a little too long before nodding once and lifting his hand off her shoulder. “I'm fine,” She insists, “Just a bit winded.” Her eyes look copper colored in the light, but steadier than a sniper's.

Dean believes her on principle and the last of the clenched up terror in his gut eases out.

Jo reaches up and pats Dean's cheek before gracefully swinging her legs out onto the fire escape. Dean takes a spare second to admire the swing of her hips as she walks up the metal steps. He's about to motion Sam over when he sees the boy is leaning against the wall with a foggy, distant glaze to his eyes.

“Hey, kid,” Dean says. “How 'bout you, huh? You alright?”

Sam doesn't look over but he laughs airily again, “Define 'alright'.”

“You still breathing?” Dean asks, walking closer and ducking his head to try and establish eye contact. Sam's gaze flickers in and out of focus before he looks up at Dean.

Disconcertingly, the boy smiles a little, “Do small, panicked breaths count?”

Despite himself, despite still breathing hard, still having a hell of a journey ahead, Dean's lips curl up reflexively. “Yeah,” He replies, “They count.”

“Then I'm alright,” Sam chuckles at the ground. It takes a few more breaths before the teen pushes off from the wall and rubs a hand back through his long hair, the silken chestnut strands of it catching in a graceless tangle and keeping it briefly out of his eyes.

Dean climbs out onto the fire escape and backs up to let Sam through, directing the boy to go up the stairs ahead of him. Sam pauses with one hand on the railing, one foot on the first step. “And it's _Sam,”_ the kid says.

Dean's head rolls back on his shoulders and he has to bite his lip to keep from laughing, sure that if he starts now he won't stop for hours. With all the flair of a witty little punk that managed to get the last word, Sam heads up the stairs and Dean watches. He closes the window behind them before following.

At the top, they use a plank of wood to get to the next roof over. It's got a fire escape down on the other side of the long building, back down into the streets. The sun has just crested over the skyline and the pale, butter-yellow glow stings after so long in darkness. After last night's storm, the air is fresh and pure, slightly chilly with midsummer breeze. The only lingering evidence of rain lies in the wispy clouds clinging to the heavens.

“Alright,” Dean says as he wiggles the plank, making sure it's steady. Sam is up first, “Now watch your step as you goin' up 'cause it's gonna be a little—”

“Pfft,” Sam blows between his lips, with a roll of his eyes. He's still too pale with two flushed spots on his high cheekbones, but he's got his wits about him again.

Dean scoffs and backs away, watches as Sam fearlessly walks across with easy balance. He did say he was used to exploring off-limits sections of the city, after all. Jo balances across next and Dean goes last. He doesn't like heights, but fortunately it's a short distance and in only a few strides, he's jumping down onto the next roof.

They walk across the long roof, careful for soft spots, and when they reach the other side, Sam leans his forearms against the brick ledge and stares at the capitol building, their first clear image of it. They're close now, just a few more blocks.

Dean silently steps up beside the teen, taking the time to catch his breath and look too. From here, the golden steeple of the capitol building shines like a beacon in the early sun; the light glinting is so bright after all the dark, dank hallways that Dean has to squint to make out the exact shape.

“Well?” Dean says and Sam looks over at him, “Is it everything you hoped for?

The boy grins wryly, looks down with a shake of his head. “Jury's still out,” Sam says, and then tips his face back up to the light, the early morning glow enough to brighten his eyes and soften his features. “But, man… you can't deny that view,” he breathes wistfully.

“C'mon, this way,” Jo directs them to the fire escape. Sam listens, going for the stairs and beginning to head down. Dean takes one more deep breath, mentally gearing up for the last leg of the journey. Just a few more blocks, he thinks. Then the trip home shouldn't be half as hard, since they'll have daylight on their side. Pick up the guns from Meg tomorrow, sell 'em all and then take a god damned vacation. He thinks briefly about what he'll buy with all those guns; he might even be able to get chocolate or something, for Jo.

“Hey!” Jo barks, snapping Dean out of reverie, “Pick it up.”

Dean huffs and heads for the fire escape, but Jo stops him with a hand on his chest before he can descend.

“Look,” She starts, and her expression is stony with exhaustion, “We're almost done. I need you to stay focused.”

Dean gives her a little smile and reaches up to brush the wild strands of her dirty blond hair back from her face. She closes her eyes, relaxing into his touch and Dean's surprised but pleased, glad to be able to reassure her. When she opens them again, Dean replies, “Yes, ma'am.”

Jo's hidden smile is worth the elbow she throws into his side.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Please leave a comment and kudo if you can. Getting some constructive opinions and criticisms is really helpful for me.
> 
> If you have any thoughts on how I handled the action packed nature of the game, please let me know. It's a struggle to get everything in but still keep the pacing and tension on point. If you think the action was too dense, leave a comment and I'll cut it down in the future.
> 
> This chapter took literally upwards of **30 hours ******to write all told, from studying the game structure to editing to proofreading. I still don't have a beta-reader, but if you or anyone you know is interested, comment or send me a message!
> 
>  
> 
> **Next chapter should be up some time after Thanksgiving. Happy holidays everybody! <3**


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again everyone!
> 
> First, apologies for the long hiatus. My life took a few sharp turns and this story had to sit on the back burner. But I promised it will be finished and it WILL. No matter how long it takes.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's been so patient. Every review and kudo means the world to me. Stories only hold value when they reach the listener, and I'm immensely grateful for everyone who's been reading.
> 
> Because of my busy schedule, and surprisingly unpredictable life events (seriously, I though I was just some boring Joe-shmoe, but you wouldn't believe some of the nonsense I've been dealing with in the last 5 months), I won't be making anymore deadline promises for updates. But I must repeat, the updates WILL keep coming.
> 
> This chapter is unbeta'd only because I wanted to get it up ASAP, but there were some readers who expressed willingness to beta-read for me and I'll be contacting them for future chapters (if those offers are still open).
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway, this chapter is plenty long and FINALLY, we're not only leaving the game script but we also get to see how Sam and Dean interact on their own. This was a long time coming, so I hope you enjoy!

 

**Chapter 4**

 

A heavy hand brushes against Jo's shoulder blade and she doesn't flinch. She turns her head to see Dean stepping up beside her, expression carefully stoic as usual, but his eyes are always too expressive. Too big and too pretty for such a masculine face; like fun house mirrors they'll show nothing but distorted images unless you look at them from just the right angle. Then you can see straight down to where he's still soft at his center. Jo knows where to look, can see his relief, his excitement even.

“There we go,” Dean says, familiar whiskey-roughened timbre. He nods his head forward and she follows his gaze to the capitol building standing before them. “Home stretch,” Dean smiles for her.

For a moment she looks up at him and remembers looking up at him when he was fifteen out in the field behind the Roadhouse. Remembers his skinny limbs filling out each time he, Cas, and John rolled in from their last adventure; remembers being ten years old and scandalized by the first glimpse of hair beneath his arms when he'd wear those stupid muscle shirts. Remembers Dean teaching her how to wrestle, watching his freckles darken in the summer sun, and curling up between him and Cas by the fire in winter. She remembers the lingering sweetness of her very first taste of puppy love.

For a moment she sees past his stubble, the cut on his chin from shrapnel at the checkpoint explosion, the bruise on his cheekbone from taking the butt of a rifle to the face, the streaks left by rain water and sweat dripping through the dust on his skin. She sees the boy Dean is beneath his stony shell and he's beautiful in the early morning sun, tips of his tousled hair shining gold like a halo.

But it's only a moment.

Reality sets back in with a vengeance, the morning sunlight bleaching the world of color instead of lighting it up gold, and she sees the weary man standing beside her, waiting for her direction.

“Bigger than I thought it'd be,” Sam comments, hands on his backpack straps as he squints up at the shining dome, and Jo comes back to the present.

She nods once and pulls away from Dean's touch, “Yeah, let's go,” She says.

The street in front of the capitol building is sunken in and flooded with green water, moss and lichen growing over the abandoned cars and street signs. Birds are chirping and it's all too cheery for Jo's tastes, but she appreciates it nonetheless. There's no way around so she just walks forward through the marshy shore, ferns and cattails tickling her arms, boots sinking into the mud. She steps into the cool water, jeans going damp. Dean follows behind unflinchingly, puts his boots into the murky pool without question or complaint.

Sam stops at the water line, distasteful expression crossing his young face.

“Um…just so it's out there. I can't swim,” The boy says looking to her, slanted eyes fox-like and sharper than a scalpel, but conspicuously submissive and sincere. For a split second, she hates him.

Dean raises an eyebrow, noticing Jo's pause.

She quickly turns to hide it, water splashing with each step forward, “Looks like it's shallow on the right side. Follow me.”

Even traversing the shallowest side, the pool is deep. When the cool water laps around her thighs, Jo has to pull her gun from her jeans and keep her elbows up as she wades. The water rises above her bellybutton at its highest, but they keep walking forward. Lilypads float on the surface and bugs buzz around their heads as they march past the rusted out husks of cars left abandoned. Dean takes the rear, watching their backs, while Sam walks beside her. They're almost at the end and she's glad. Needs this damn kid gone, wants it to be just her and Dean again.

“I'm glad Meg hired you,” Sam says lowly, casting a short glance her way with a shy, genuine smile.

Jo doesn't return it, only half listening. “What do you mean?” She asks absently, tone apathetic.

Sam's smile shifts into self-deprecation and he looks away, “I know you guys are getting paid for this, but I'm trying to say thanks.”

There are so many things Jo could say in response to that, so many words both bitter and sweet piling up at the base of her tongue. She wisely says none of those. Instead she replies simply, “yeah, sure thing,” and keeps walking.

They're dripping, shoes squelching as they walk up the stairs to the stately building, almost entirely intact. Moss and ivy cover the columns transforming the brick red facade into plush, vibrant green. The thick double doors are tagged with the Firefly symbol. As they get closer, they step out of pale sunlight into the shadow of the grand structure and Jo feels a chill, a phantom breeze that hits the water beaded on her skin and makes her shiver.

She gets a bad feeling; a surreal second where it almost seems like a dream and she can hear her mother's voice saying, _'someone's stepping on your grave.'_

Dean walks around her, interpreting her pause as instruction to get the door. He's still got his gun out from keeping it out of the water and he lifts it, the barrel pointing skyward as he slowly twists the handle. It's unlocked. He pushes the door open slow, hawk eyes steady as he looks inside, listening carefully. It's quiet.

Dean opens the door enough to step inside but he stops right there, lowers his gun, hands hanging limply at his sides. Jo comes up behind him and looks over his shoulder.

“No,” She says, voice coming out airy and openly distressed, before she even really has time to take it in. “No, no,” She shoves past Dean and looks around at the scattered corpses on the marble floor. Fireflies, their pools of blood not even dried yet. There's no one here, no one alive.

“Shit,” Jo curses and her hands ball into fists before the panic grips her and she rushes to the first body, skidding to kneel beside it, patting it down. The silence in the grand hall rings so loudly that she can hear her own frantic heart, each hitching breath that escapes.

“What happens now?” Comes Sam's soft, hesitant voice behind her.

Jo swallows back tears, willing her hands to stop shaking. Weakness is a choice and if she's managed this long, she's not going to fall apart now. This is her last job and the most important one she'll ever finish. There has to be a way.

“What are you doin', Jo?” Dean asks tiredly.

She shakes her head and concentrates on ripping open the pockets on the dead man's vest, “Maybe they, ah, maybe they had a map or—something to tell us where they were going.”

Dean scoffs in his throat, steps right up to her, she can see his wet boots. “How far are we gonna take this?” he asks in annoyed disbelief.

“As far as it needs to go!” Jo snaps in response glaring up at him. Dean's brow creases heavily as he stares back. Sam backs away from them and the movement catches her attention. “Where was this lab of theirs?” Jo demands, pinning the boy with a hard gaze.

Sam is caught off guard, looks back and forth between Dean and Jo. “Meg never said,” he replies warily, letting the words out slow like anything more might set someone off, “But she mentioned it was someplace out west.”

Before Jo can ask for details, Dean cuts in again, incredulous, anger quickly mounting, “What the hell are we doin' here, Jo? Workin' for Fireflies was already a shit move, and you see how it turned out for them,” He motions sharply to the corpses on the ground. “Enough is enough. This isn't us.”

“How the hell would you know, Dean!” Jo snaps contemptuously, jumping to her feet. “What do you know about us, huh? About me?” She finishes softly and she hates herself but this is a moment of pure honesty, so unfamiliar at this point that it stings like pouring alcohol on a wound.

They're not who they were ten years ago, back in Nebraska. This isn't what Jo ever wanted to become, isn't what her mama would've wanted. Her life means nothing to anyone except the next shipment, the next payment, the next knife fight. She stacks her trauma and her shields like a house of cards around a soul that's whittled down to the quick and she can't take it anymore. She wants her life to _mean_ something.

Dean stares at her in incomprehension. He doesn't understand, probably couldn't if he tried. In a way, he's always been a house of cards, always been gnawing himself down to nothing on the inside. Survivors, that's what he says they are. Says they never give up, but what he really means is that they keep going no matter how little of them is left, how little it matters. Somewhere along the way he forgot that surviving isn't the same as living.

“Jo,” Dean says firmly, “I _know_ you are smarter than this. We've done enough.”

“Really?,” Jo argues. “What've we really done? Spinning our wheels, stocking our money, for what? We're shitty people, Dean and it's been that way a long time.”

“The fuck are you talkin' about?” Dean spits furiously, recoiling from the bite of her words before hunching his shoulders and standing his ground. “We're _survivors,_ and we're not about to waste—”

“This is a chance to do something—” Jo talks over him.

“It is over, Jo!” Dean shouts, the whole room filling with his livid voice. “ _We._ _Tried,_ ” He bites out curtly, “Now we're going home.”

 _Home_ , Jo thinks, and it doesn't draw up the image of a dank apartment with three locks on the door, empty and cold. A sagging mattress in the cramped back room the only place to find an hour of solace in the arms of a man who was once her friend, the only place safe enough to show an ounce of humanity. That's not home.

Home is a polished bar 1500 miles away. It's the wide open field where the golden grass came up to her stomach, the chickens and horses and geese, the stretch of endless trees beyond. It's Ashe letting her read his comics and smoke his pot, her big brother filled with questions and curiosity until the world beat the brilliance out of him. It's the sound of the jukebox and the crickets, her mother's raspy laugh and the shuffling of a deck of cards. Home is the smell of her father's leather jacket and her mother's chamomile tea, the dust of cue chalk on the green felt of the pool table.

Home is a pile of ash.

“I'm not…I'm not going anywhere,” Jo replies and she looks into those green eyes, the only ones she ever prayed would look back. “This is my last stop.” The words make it real, more than the pain, more than her already blurring vision and feverish skin.

Dean's not an idiot but he's the master of seeing only what he wants to see. The only thing that reads on his face is confusion as he says, “The hell does that mean?”

Jo's eyes burn but she shakes her head and turns away, “It means our luck had to run out sooner or later.”

“What are you even—” he starts, his heavy hand coming down on her shoulder; this time, she winces.

“No _don't_ —” Jo quickly spins away from his reach. “Don't touch me,” she finishes softly, stepping away from him. Dean's face goes slack, his hands fall to his sides. He knows, she thinks. He has to know. But Dean doesn't move, doesn't even breathe. He stares at her bewildered, like he's never seen her before in his life.

“Oh shit,” Sam breathes out, timorous, stunned. They both look over at the boy and he says what Dean's refusing to believe on his own. “She's infected.”

Hearing it out loud must snap something into place because Dean's face shutters and he takes a few steps back. She was sure that he'd be fine, that he'd bounce back like he always does, but Dean looks like he's about to run for it, like his sky is falling and his instincts are telling him to escape. This isn't how Jo wanted it to go. She wanted to pass Sam off and get Dean alone. She wanted to tell him slowly, in her own words, hand him the gun and ask him to take one last order for her. Selfish, but that's how she wanted it. He'd have been okay if she had time to explain it to him, to say goodbye in a way that wouldn't be pathetic.

Jo lets out a shuddering breath, “Dean…”

“Lemme see it,” He croaks, voice pitched all wrong.

“I didn't mean for—” She tries, but Dean cuts her off.

“Show it to me,” he demands, enunciating sharp and deliberate.

Jo's mouth twists into a frown before she reaches up and jerks the right collar of her button-up to the side, the soggy material pulling up from the bite with a sticky sound. It should hurt, she realizes, but the skin there is numb. She can't feel the bite anymore, only the bone deep ache sinking down through her shoulder into her chest. It's ragged and grisly, the whole area inflamed and darkly bruised, and the blood sickness has already started, raw red veins spidering up her neck and down her chest and arm. There're bubbles in the wound, foamy white tinted green, the cordycep growing.

“ _Oh_ _Christ_ ,” Dean blurts upon seeing it, horrified.

“Oops, right?” She says, scathing and callous.

Somehow, seeing him react takes her own fear away, solidifies the truth. At first she didn't want to believe it, to even think about it. She wanted it to go away, to heal like Sam's, to pretend it never happened. She can't now. The abject shock and despair in Dean's eyes forces her to accept that there is no escape, no way back to the life she had before. There's only the one road forward.

She dies today. This is the last day of her life, the last time Jo Harvelle means anything at all, unless—

Jo marches purposefully towards Sam and the boy looks at her with wide, sorrowful eyes. “Gimme your arm,” Jo commands, but she doesn't wait for him to move, snatching the boy's narrow wrist and pulling up his sleeve. His bite looks like nothing compared to hers, hasn't changed at all since they saw it the first time. It's pinked and bubbled up, the cordycep spread outward from the bite but scarred over.

Jo holds up the boy's forearm for Dean to see. “This was three weeks,” she points to Sam's scar but Dean's not looking, staring off at nothing. “I was bitten an hour ago and it's already worse,” Jo declares loudly, dragging Sam forward and holding his arm up to make sure he sees, “This is fucking real, Dean.”

Dean's eyes skim past Sam's bite then rise slowly to meet Jo's. He just shakes his head, doesn't say a word. Jo releases the teens wrist and steps up toe to toe with Dean, doggedly determined.

“You're going to take this boy to Castiel,” Jo orders right to his face, “He used to run with the Fireflies. He'll know where to go.”

“No, no, no,” Dean mutters, shaking his head more emphatically, “No, we'll find a way. We'll find any other way.” His voice changes from almost pleading to fierce assertion, “I'm not doing this. I'm not.”

“ _Yes, you are_ ,” Jo unequivocally affirms with every ounce of will she can muster. Dean doesn't react, just looks into her eyes and she sees down inside where he's raw and exhausted and obstinate.

Jo leans closer, close enough to kiss him though she doesn't dare. “Dean, I know there's enough here that you have to feel some sort of obligation to me,” she whispers and he looks even more horrified, as if she'd slapped him across the face. Jo's not stupid, knows what they have can't be called love by a long shot. She knows Dean's never really felt for her the way she used to feel for him. She knows neither of them is truly capable or willing to give that much of themselves away and she's been okay with that. She is okay with that.

“Jo, please,” Dean whispers and he doesn't sound heartbroken, he sounds desperate.

“You take this boy to Cas,” Jo commands again and this time Dean hears it.

There's a noise outside, the sound of an engine and all three of them turn to look towards the windows. Sam's closest and the boy runs over, putting his back to the wall and peeking around.

“Shit, it's a military truck,” Sam hisses, “Armored, even has a turret.”

Jo doesn't resist the ironic, wet little chuckle that spills past her lips. This is less time than she expected, but at least now Dean won't have the nightmare of killing her stuck between his ears for the rest of his life. At least they get that small mercy.

“Dammit,” Dean growls, taking a step towards the door but Jo stands in front of him, stops him with a hand raised.

“Let's be realistic here,” She says hurriedly and Dean's face sets into a stony frown. “I can buy you some time, buy you a shot at gettin' that boy outta here, but you have to run.”

“What!” Sam unhelpfully gasps. Both Dean and Jo ignore him.

The expression on Dean's face is near indecipherable, a mixture of sorrow and duty, fury and defeat. He's preparing to argue but there's no time for it and nothing he could say would change her decision. “We are not just gonna lea—” Dean starts.

Jo cuts him off, “I _will_ not turn into one of those things,” she says fiercely, looking right into his eyes. This is her goodbye, she realizes. There won't be a better one, there won't be one more touch, one more kiss, one more anything. This is the last time she'll ever see Dean and she soaks up every bit of his image she can. His eyes are wet, lashes clumping, and Dean's just realized the same thing.

“Come on,” Jo whispers, forcing a cheeky little smile, abandoning the futile memorization of every freckle, scar, and smudge to search Dean's eyes fervently, “Make this easy for me.”

Dean's jaw trembles minutely and his eyes go to the doors over her shoulder, the sounds of approaching boots. They're too close. There's no time.

Dean takes a step forward, “I can fight—”

“No, just go!” Jo shouts, physically shoving him away. She's weaker already, he only stumbles back one step. His face has gone blank now, but she can see through his eyes how much that hurt. He doesn't step forward again. “Just fuckin' go,” Jo finishes at a whisper, near tears again.

Dean backs away from her, one step at a time, eyes still locked on hers. “C'mon kid,” He says softly, motioning the boy over.

“I'm sorry,” Sam says as he approaches hesitantly, and the fuckin' kid has the nerve to look sincerely grief-stricken. “I'm so sorry,” he breathes, looking right at her. She believes him. It doesn't help, but she believes him.

“Let's go,” Dean orders roughly, pushing Sam towards the doorway behind them, leading deeper into the capitol building. Sam obeys, turning and going for the door without another word.

Dean walks backward as long as he can, keeping his eyes on Jo for every second. But eventually, he's forced to turn his back to her.

She watches the sway of his shoulders, the sweep of his hair, watches as he steps through the doorway and doesn't turn to look back again before shutting it.

Jo stares after him and remembers intensely a lifetime of longing to follow him, longing for adventure. Of staying at the Roadhouse and being forced to watch as Dean Winchester walked out that door again and again, envious of his freedom. This time, she doesn't feel envy. She feels something inside herself so big that it terrifies her, an emotion as eternal and endless as the void of space. An aching, bittersweet affection that swells like a tsunami, and she finally understands the intense, heart-wrenching agony of wanting someone to go on without you. It seems like a lifetime of feelings hitting her at once and she thinks maybe this is what they mean when they say it all flashes before your eyes.

For a moment, she feels just like a little girl again. She's so scared.

It's only a moment.

Jo breathes in forcefully, still refusing to let the tears fall. Her mama didn't cry when time came and Jo won't either. She's a Harvelle, and if she goes down, she goes down swinging.

Expression resolute, gun in her hands, she turns to face the doors, sunlight through the windows bright and warm on her dry cheeks. Jo flips off the safety and takes aim, eyes steady towards the sound of approaching footsteps across her grave.

 

Xx--XxX--xX

 

“Oh god,” Sam mumbles, hands over his face. “Oh my god. We just—we can't just—”

Dean stops his spiral before it begins, grabbing the boy's bony shoulder hard enough to bruise and swinging him around. Sam drops his hands in reaction to the rough handling, a scowl starting, the beginnings of protest on his lips before he sees Dean's face and freezes still.

“ _Stop_ ,” Dean growls at him, his voice a mix of fury and urgency, “You're gonna shut your goddamn mouth and you're gonna follow me. You keep it the fuck together, you hear me?”

Sam stares at him and for the first time, Dean reads genuine fear in his hazel eyes. Sam only swallows once and nods quickly. There's nothing else to say so Dean releases him and heads up the stairs, looking for some kind of exit out the backside of the building. He can't think any farther ahead than that, though the questions of _how do we get out_ _of_ _the city?_ and _where do we even go?_ are hovering somewhere along his subconscious.

Right now, there is only one imperative: _survive_ , and Dean will make sure that they do.

The stairs lead them back they way they came and they walk quietly, crouched low as they sneak along the second floor balcony overlooking the large entrance room. Dean hears the front doors slam open and at the first sounds of gunfire, he pushes Sam into a run. Their footsteps will be covered by the noise, and it's their only chance to move entirely undetected (and he doesn't want to see). They head west through the building, side stepping desks and furniture shoved around as cover. In one room Dean finds a corpse, a hunting rifle still clutched in his grips. He holds up a hand flat, the signal for _'stop_ , _'_ and Sam halts in his tracks, stumbling a little with the aborted step. Dean grabs up the gun, inspecting it, seeing that it's loaded and checking that it still works. It's clean enough, isn't jammed, not that old.

There's footsteps behind them, distant but it doesn't matter how far, only matters that they're still looking. If the military thinks there's more Fireflies, they'll search the whole building and Dean can't take them on alone. Can't do anything alone but run, run, run.

Sam is looking around too, knows just as well as Dean that escape is the only option.

Dean signals _follow_ and Sam turns his head at the first motion of Dean's hands like a hound smelling blood. His slanted eyes re-focus and he's right in Dean's shadow the entire way. They slow to a jog, and then start creeping along, unsure if any soldiers are in position to flank them. The rooms are ornate but mostly empty, too many open spaces, broken windows, and crumbling walls on this side of the building. Nowhere to hide.

They gained enough of a lead by running that the soldiers behind them are still a few minutes away, and Dean feels something almost like relief when he spots a stairwell and an exit sign, almost but too dull to count as a real emotion. Dean's about to descend when Sam grabs onto his shirt, right at his shoulder. Dean shoves away on reflex, turning to glare at the teen.

Sam doesn't even look at him, instead pointing down to the door. Dean looks and though he couldn't see the man stationed there, his shadow is cast across the concrete outside. Dean nods, understanding now, and his father's voice in his head tells him to get his shit together, to sharpen his eyes and concentrate. Dean refocuses, cutting himself down further until he can't feel anything, until he's not distracted by anything at all, his internal thoughts nothing more than directives to the next action.

He creeps down the stairs, stopping Sam at the archway that empties into the first floor, the door long ago ripped from its hinges. Dean steps out slowly, lifting the rifle already in his hands, quicker and quieter than shifting around to get his pistol. It doesn't have a scope but he's not that far, so Dean takes aim and moves ever so slowly until he can get a clear shot. He lines it up, right at the bastard's temple.

The shot booms through the building and the soldier drops, but shouts bounce through the wide, empty rooms along with the patter of approaching boots. Despite the rest of the military knowing their position, Dean's immediate attention is on the second guard he couldn't see, rushing in through the door with a gun raised.

“I got 'im! He's right—” Is all the man has a chance to say before Dean's fired off a second shot. The rifle only holds two rounds at a time and he didn't hit the fatal mark, instead hitting the man in his belly protected by a bulletproof vest. It still stuns him enough that Dean has a split second to rush forward and swiftly break at least his cheekbone and nose with the butt of his rifle. The second soldier stiffens and drops, passed out or dead, doesn't really matter.

Dean can't see back into the stairwell, so he whistles sharply. Sam's smart enough to interpret the sound as a beckon, even if he hadn't been taught the signal before. The boy peeks around the edge of the doorless archway, just enough to take in the scene without exposing himself. When he sees Dean is the man still standing, he steps out, expression grim as his eyes flick once to the bodies on the floor.

Dean straps the empty rifle to his backpack, and then they're running again, back out into the blinding sunlight, feet making quick work of the stairs.

There's more shouting behind them, getting perilously closer as Dean searches the street for a way out, a hiding place, anything.

There's a subway entrance, but no guarantee the tunnels aren't flooded, the same as the street at the front of the capitol building. There's no time to consider it further than that because gunshots are popping off behind them, bullets whizzing through the air, so Dean grabs Sam's arm and all out sprints for the subway. The military truck crashes through a barricade to their left, coming around from the front of the building, turret swiveling with a mechanical whirr to aim at their backs.

They manage to make it in and down the broken steps before more bullets start flying, raining down dust and broken tile on their heads as they descend into the darkness. Sam is fast, nimble feet and skinny legs propelling him forward at a speed Dean can't match carrying as much gear as he is. He follows behind, watching the teen effortlessly vault over the turnstiles before Dean follows suit. They keep running into the darkness but Dean draws up short at the dust in the air.

Too much dust for an abandoned subway.

With practiced motions, he pulls his bag off one shoulder and lets it swing around to his chest, digging inside for his gas mask. There are still soldiers behind him, still gunfire and orders being barked sharply. Dean shoves the thing on his face, only pausing long enough to be sure it's properly in place and slip his arm back through the strap of his backpack before hurrying forward.

 _Sam_ he thinks, the god damn kid better have his own mask or they're fuckin' screwed.

Dean slows again to a jog once it's too dark to see, maneuvering around the indiscernible rubble and wreckage. When a hand catches his shoulder, Dean lifts one of his fists, but pulls his punch when he sees the teen duck. Sam, it's just Sam.

Sam cautiously stands when the punch doesn't land and pulls on Dean's shirt again, guiding him back behind a toppled pillar and crouching down.

“Soldiers,” the boy speaks softly, “Two. There, and there.” He leans in close when he points, to guide Dean's line of sight.

Dean looks briefly, noting that Sam's right and there are already two soldiers down here. Maybe waiting to trap any Fireflies that attempted escape, but that's not what concerns him most. Dean examines Sam again, the boy panting from their run in the dank, spore laden air, heavy yellowish fog blanketing the entire tunnel. Sam doesn't have a mask.

“How the fuck are you breathin' this shit?” Dean mumbles, more shock than true inquiry.

Sam turns to look at him, eyes unable to meet Dean's through the lenses of his mask. The boy doesn't look smug or irritated, he just looks, expression almost blank except for his determination.

“I wasn't lying,” is all Sam whispers, before turning to fix his gaze on the real threat in the room. There's nothing for Dean to do but follow suit.

Dean quickly decides it'd be easier to sneak by them than kill the soldiers outright. He waits until they're facing away before quickly ushering Sam deeper into the darkness of the subway station. They sneak around the pillars and benches at a crouch, Dean keeping one eye on their pursuers at all times.

“I think we can get through there,” Sam whispers to him, nodding his head towards one of the subway cars, abandoned and left to rust on the tracks.

Dean briefly inspects the car, as much as he can through the thick fog of spores, and agrees with Sam. There's probably a way out onto the other side of the tracks and as long as the soldiers don't spot them, they'll be safe. He's pretty sure they won't chase them deep into the subway system. This place has gotta be at least partially flooded, full of spores, and probably clickers too. The military may be ruthless but they're not stupid; they wouldn't risk that much for two stragglers.

Dean times it, waiting nearly five minutes for the perfect opening. When both of the soldiers are facing away, cursing into their radios about not being able to find the targets, Dean signals _run_ and Sam bursts into action, feet still silent over the dusty ground. Dean follows after him into the subway car, immediately slowing when he feels the metal flooring rock beneath his boots, a hollow, rusty groan emitted from the tracks.

 _'Shit, think it's clickers?'_ one of the soldiers asks.

_'Could be. Let's hurry this shit up. If they ran, they'll probably die soon anyway.'_

Sam is crouched in the aisle of the train car, eyes wide and awaiting Dean's next instruction. It's surreal to have no one guiding him, to have no one to answer to, to instead have someone looking to him for their next step. Dean puts that thought aside, moves forward with his father's voice in his own head still giving him advice. Careful for jagged edges of metal—tetanus can kill you just as easily as an infected—quiet as they jump out the other end of the car into ankle deep water, they walk to the next subway car left on the tracks.

Parts of the tunnel are collapsed, enormous sections of concrete ceiling and rubble piled up throughout the narrow passages. The ceiling of the next car they enter is dented inwards, dipping low enough that both Sam and Dean have to duck as they go through, the structure creaking underneath the pressure. At the end of the next train car, Dean jumps out into the water but his boots don't find the bottom.

Sam's about to follow him but Dean quickly holds a hand up.

“Wait,” He says, voice drowned by the sound of splashing water echoing in the confined space, “It's deep here. Think you can find a way around?”

Dean can't make out the boy's expression very clearly through his gas mask and the fog but he doesn't seem pleased with the idea. “By myself?”

Dean's treading water, breathing heavily through his mask. “I'll be right here, and you'll be just fine.”

“Won't leave me behind, right?” Sam says, and the thin, forced humor in his voice is an obvious cover for his anxiety.

Dean hasn't been thinking clearly enough to really form a plan more than few steps at a time. Ditching Sam isn't any of his next steps, and right now, that's as much as he can promise.

“I won't,” Dean replies. When Sam still doesn't move Dean sighs and tries to think up something more reassuring to say. “I'll get you through this, Sam. Promise,” is what he settles on. He realizes this is the first time he's ever said the boy's name out loud and it doesn't sting like he expected it to. It doesn't feel like anything.

The teen finally seems to believe him because he nods and starts looking for another way forward. There's a ledge on one side, the water coming up only a few inches over the moss covered concrete. Sam has to shimmy outside of the subway car, long fingers grasping onto the lip of the roof, keeping his chest flat to the metal siding as he slowly makes his way towards the ledge. If he slips, he'll fall straight back into deep water. Dean stays close enough to drag the boy back to the surface if that happens.

Luck is on their side this time and Sam makes it to the narrow concrete path along one side of the tunnel, taking in deep breaths when his feet are back on solid ground. From there, Dean keeps swimming, dodging and diving his way through obstacles and Sam walks at his side, crouching, crawling, and climbing. Dean knows his guns are wet now and he'll have to dry and clean them before they can be relied on safely, but they'll still work in a pinch. He won't risk it with the rifle, unfamiliar with it's workings, but he trusts that his Colt will be fine even if it gets a little waterlogged.

He's been caught in wet places too often when outside the QZ, so he made his backpack waterproof. The inside is sealed with plastic so things shouldn't get very damp, and his flashlight is waterproofed and wrapped in duct tape just to be safe. The light stays strong, guiding their way through the pitch black.

They're in the tunnels for over three hours, searching for a way out. There are no clickers, or if there are, they're not in this section of the subway system. The infected may not be completely stupid, but they don't have the coordination to swim. Dean hasn't ever met one in deep water before, not a living one anyway. Occasionally, Dean climbs up out of the water to join Sam on the narrow ledge, but some of the spaces are too small for him to comfortable traverse and he has to jump back in the water to keep going.

Eventually, the ledge ends and Sam stops, unable to go any further.

“Um… I can't see any way around from here,” The boy says, voice subdued but no longer at a whisper. They've been at it long enough that he's sure their pursuers have given up.

Dean looks and can't see anything either. There's another subway car but it's on the opposite side of the tracks, a good thirty feet away from Sam and the kid can't swim.

That's when Dean notices this is the first subway car they've seen in a while and then he takes in the tiling on the walls and floors, bright yellow reflecting in dim light that isn't coming from his flashlight. It's brighter here. They're near a station.

That means they should finally be able to find a way out.

“Just wait here,” Dean says, “I'll find something for you.”

Sam looks uneasy, grabbing his own elbow, standing awkwardly, but he doesn't protest again. Dean swims forward two hundred yards or so and finds the platform, crawls up out of the water and peeks down the hallway leading out. It's even brighter there. He only pauses once before he keeps going forward, just to check. He finds the stairway leading out is too long to see the surface so Dean heads up to be sure the path is unobstructed. The thick spore clouds have cleared here, and it takes a solid lungful or two for the infection to set in, so he pulls his gas mask up onto his forehead. The taste of real air is like cool water on burnt skin, so blessedly necessary and soothing that he sighs involuntarily.

More than halfway up the stairs, finally he sees the sky, the prismatic, golden sunlight stinging his eyes after so long in the dark. He stops on the stairs, only a dozen more before he's outside.

He could leave.

Yet somehow, the sunlight isn't even tempting. Dean looks up the stairs and feels like it wouldn't matter if he climbed them right now. There's no where to go, nothing to return to, no purpose to drive his feet forward. There's nothing for him back in Boston but a pile of problems and debts, nothing on the horizon to look towards. Nothing and nowhere and no one.

He's never been quite this low before. Even when his dad died, even when Cas left him, even when he was running from Atlanta at top speed, blood still seeping from his wounds. All those times, he had something to strive for, some place to go, a plan B or _plan Z._ There was always a way out, and Dean's trained to survive, to keep going no matter what happens. He'd take any path, as long as it meant he stayed alive, suffer any trials and horrors just to keep breath in his lungs.

This time, there's nothing left. Everything he's ever had has burned down around him and this time, the eternal urge that has kept him moving in the right direction is gone. He looks up towards the sunlight that heralds his freedom and feels _nothing_.

As though he's already dead.

Except for Jo's impassioned voice ringing between his ears, finally breaking through the fog now that he's not in any physical danger, now that his adrenaline is draining. Jo's soft brown eyes, fierce through the tears she's too proud to let fall, piercing him like a stake to the chest. Dean sniffs once and wipes the moisture from his cheeks, pretends it's just the water he's been swimming in, pulls his mask back down over his face dulling the sunlight's shine.

He turns his back to the staircase and searches for a way to get Sam safely through the water.

He finds a wooden palette that floats just fine and swims back towards Sam, dragging it behind him. Sam is in the dark without his own flashlight, standing exactly where Dean left him.

“Was just starting to worry,” the boy says when Dean draws up close, and his voice wavers enough to give away the true extent of his fear.

“Hop on,” Dean replies, changing the subject. “This should be able to take your weight, if you don't move around too much.”

The teen eyes the palette skeptically, stretching out a leg to tap at it with the tip of his sneaker, “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Dean grunts. “C'mon. Step onto it; I got'ya.”

Sam does as he's told, swiftly dropping into a crouch when he realizes he can't keep his balance on the floating palette. It rocks precariously and the teen's fingers grip through the slats hard, turning his knuckles visibly white, expression twisted and tense. When Sam's got himself situated and he isn't sinking, Dean starts dragging the palette back the way he came. It's heavier with Sam on top of it, now floating a few inches beneath the surface and getting the boy's shoes wet, but still glides through the brackish water with unexpected ease.

“Whoa, whoa,” Sam says, when Dean goes a little too fast and the board starts to wobble again. “Slow and steady, right?”

“Just hold on, kid,” Dean gruffs in reply, kicking his exhausted legs to keep them moving. He brings Sam right up to the platform and the boy eagerly jumps off at the first opportunity.

Sam lets out a wooshing sigh of pure relief, hands on his thighs and head down as he catches his breath. Dean pulls himself up out of the water, clothes drenched and heavy, clinging and cold. He checks his gun, shaking a few droplets out of the barrel. For the rifle he'll need a solid hour and good light to fully inspect it before he'd shoot it again. He tucks his Colt back into his jeans and heads off towards the stairs, grabbing Sam's shoulder on the way to get the boy moving.

They climb the stairs back up into the mid-afternoon sun, stepping out onto a peaceful street overtaken by trees and thick green grass, the plants thriving after the nourishing rains.

As soon as he's out of the tunnel, Dean pulls off his gas mask, wincing as it snags a few hairs but grateful for the fresh air against his clammy skin. There's a thick, sun-softened truck tire lying on the ground a couple yards away and Dean can't resist the respite it offers, sitting to stretch out his wearied muscles. For a moment, he just closes his eyes and breathes.

He hears Sam's approaching steps, sneakers treading through rich soil and plentiful grass. Dean doesn't open his eyes.

The peace lasts all of a few minutes, before the boy decides to open his mouth.

“Okay so… look,” Sam starts with a sigh, voice low and ponderous, “About Jo—”

“Stop,” Dean interjects, flinching away from the sound of her name on Sam's lips.

Sam's silent for all of twenty seconds before he starts again, “I just want to—”

“I said, _stop,_ ” Dean retorts loudly, looking up finally to take in Sam's wary, sorrowful expression. Dean swallows and looks away, scraping one hand through the stubble on his face. He gives himself ten more seconds of this weak, pitiful feeling in his gut before he pulls himself up to standing and faces Sam head on, steel running through his veins.

“Here's how this is gonna play out,” Dean tells him. “You don't bring up Jo— _ever_. Understand me?”

Sam dares to meet his eyes at first, a brief battle of wills before the teen accepts he's not going to win this one and drops his gaze.

“Yeah,” Sam breathes out, nodding his head at the ground.

Dean sucks in a slow breath through his nose, “I'm takin' you to Castiel. Far as I know, he lives out in the wilderness somewhere in Wyoming.”

Sam peeks up hesitantly, an eyebrow lifting in something between disbelief and astonishment, “That's like… more than halfway across the continent.”

Dean's mouth flattens into an unimpressed frown, “I know how far it is. Now we're gonna have some ground rules, you already got one. Second, you don't tell anybody about your—” Dean's mouth stalls around the word _'bite.'_ “Condition,” He finishes diplomatically, “They'll either think you're crazy or try to kill you. And third, you do what I say, when I say it, no questions. That clear?”

Sam's still gazing up dourly through his lashes and heavy, chestnut bangs, jaw set though it's obvious the boy's smart enough to know he's in no position to argue. He nods again, shifting his gaze away, sniffing once hard.

Dean lets out all the air held in his chest. Something about seeing the boy who's been bright and friendly through the continuous nightmare of the last twenty-four hours looking so suddenly and entirely defeated makes Dean feel like a jackass. He doesn't feel steel in his veins anymore. He feels the ever encroaching hopelessness that threatens to swallow everything, the darkness he's had to fight off ever since he turned thirteen. He sees that feeling on Sam's face. There's something so grim and almost obscene about such timeworn _misery_ on a young face that Dean can't help himself.

“Hey,” He adds softly, putting a hand on Sam's shoulder, squeezing in reassurance. “Promised I'd get you through this, an' I don't say that shit lightly. Keep your head up, kid.”

The boy huffs something that might be a laugh, and Dean hears that it's a little wetter than it should be. “It's _Sam,”_ he reminds, looking up and meeting Dean's eyes again.

“Yeah,” Dean nods, clapping his hand on the teens shoulder once before letting go. He turns to face the city, trying to figure out where they are and which direction to start in. “You ready?”

Sam sniffs one more time and clears his throat, answers in a voice that's pointedly lifted in spirits, “Ready when you are.”

 

Xx--xX

 

It takes them two days to get out of Boston and reach the edge of Lincoln, a small borough just outside the city. The actual walking isn't the problem as much as the wandering infected and broken, impassible infrastructure.

When it gets dark that first night, they settle in an abandoned house, Dean killing the single infected meandering lazily around inside. They choose a house based on which one has the sturdiest doors and best barricades, spending a few hours locking themselves in securely. They camp out on the second floor, watching the stairs from the master bedroom, the only entrance or exit to the upper level.

They eat the granola bars from Dean's backpack and Sam pulls out a can of pears from his own bag, sharing them equally. They each manage about eight hours of fitful, half sleep as they wait for the sun to rise again.

They start walking at sunrise and don't stop until they reach Lincoln, a kitsch little sign welcoming them to the empty town still standing alongside the road. Dean pauses on the highway, looking off over the trees to the water tower looming in the distance.

“Short cut,” He says motioning for Sam to follow as he jumps the guard rail and walks down into the wild trees and bushes, tall grass licking at his knees.

Sam jumps the guard rail with no hesitance, dropping down more than five feet and landing spryly. He follows Dean into the brush, sneakers crunching through dead leaves twice as loud as Dean's well-trained steps. The boy spins in slow circles as they walk, looking around with big eyes.

“What?” Dean asks, noticing the boy's interest.

Sam glances over at the sound of his voice, offers a little smile and goes back to staring up at the trees. “Nothing, it's just…” he huffs through his nose, “Never seen anything like this.”

Dean's brow creases as he keeps walking, shooting subtle looks over at the kid, “You mean the woods?”

“Yeah,” Sam affirms lowly. “Never walked through the woods before. Read about it though.”

Dean breathes out a chuckle, wondering what the hell it must've been like to grow up only in the QZs. He just can't imagine a childhood without the outdoors. “Well, enjoy the novelty. It'll wear off quick,” he rumbles.

Sam just keeps looking around, “It's kinda cool… Oh look!” he says, rushing forward a few steps to Dean's side, watching a bunny scamper past them—the kind that doesn't know better than to dart across the trail when making its escape. Dean glances at the teen and his lips quirk at his own private joke. “An actual rabbit,” Sam comments with the brightest voice he's had all day, “Weird.”

“You're weird,” Dean quips in response, rolling his eyes and continuing on his way. There's geese too, picking languidly at ankle deep water pooled from the rain. They fly away as soon as Sam and Dean are within eye shot.

“So what's the deal with this place again?” Sam asks, walking at Dean's side. “You said your friend lives here?”

“Yeah,” Dean nods, “Old family friend. He can get us a car, and that's the only way we're making it to Wyoming.”

Sam nods in acceptance of that, eyes on the ground as he steps around rocks and tree roots. “Why not just sneak back into the QZ? Meg's probably still around for at least a week. Especially since the uh… since the transport didn't go as planned.”

Dean sighs, and it's not as bad as usual—no scent of metal and unwashed clothes, no lingering odor of rotting and death. The air here is clean and summer warm, smells only of dark soil and wild flowers and grass. “Welp,” Dean grunts as he lifts himself up a short ledge, using the exposed tree roots as foot holds, “There's two things wrong with that plan.” He turns and offers out a hand to the boy, helping him up.

“One,” Dean says in a rough exhale as he tugs the boy upwards. “If Meg could'a got you to this lab herself, she would'a,” he explains as he claps the dirt from his palms.

“Well she got _shot_ ,” Sam turns his head back to argue as he keeps walking, “But I dunno… maybe she's better.”

Dean scoffs, “Kid, even if she hadn't'a gotten shot, her people weren't doin' too well in the city and I don't imagine that's changed. She's either booked it outta Boston or she's dead.” He leads them over a small creak, a few inches of clear water burbling softly around the stones and pebbles.

“I think Meg might be a little tougher than you give her credit for,” Sam replies, but keeps his tone amicable and soft, “But alright, what's the second reason?”

Dean doesn't bother telling Sam he's known Meg for years, knew her back before she took over the Fireflies. Apparently, the kid's mind is made up about his _'friend.'_ “Second: the way the military's all riled up over the Fireflies, I don't think I could sneak us back in if I tried. Not in one piece, anyway. If there was another option, I'd take it,” Dean says seriously, “Believe me.”

Sam doesn't frown, but it's a close thing; his tiny smile is gone, replaced with a contemplative look.

The walk through the forest only lasts about twenty minutes before they're coming up on the water tower Dean saw from the highway. There's a tall, chain link fence around the whole area with thick curls of razor wire on top. Gotta protect the water supply, he figures. He approaches the entrance to the fenced area only to find it locked securely with a thick chain and a heavy padlock. He grips his fingers through the chainlink and pulls hard, but it's secure.

“Maybe we could climb it?” Sam suggests.

Dean turns to shoot the boy an incredulous look. “That's not barbed wire, it's _razor wire_ , and unless you want either tetanus, an infection, or to nick an artery and bleed out—”

“Jeez, okay. No climbing,” Sam concedes, with his hands up. He walks away along the fence, looking through it. “What do we do?”

Dean tugs on the padlock and finds that while the chain is heavily rusted, the actual locking mechanism seems fine. It's a key lock, rather than a combo, and it looks a little newer than it should. Probably Bobby securing this side of his perimeter—which means he'll be right pissed if Dean breaks it. He might be able to pick it though.

“Just,” He huffs as he drops to his knees to get eye level with the padlock and pulls his backpack off to get his tools, “Hang out for a minute.”

Dean spends a couple minutes listening carefully as he works his lock picks into the keyhole and starts tinkering with the tumblers.

“ _Whoa,_ ” he hears breathed reverently behind him and Dean turns his head to see Sam with his arms outstretched in the amber glow of the evening sun. Little golden lights float around him lazily, alighting briefly on his clothes before flying around again, a few even landing in his outstretched palms. “ _Fireflies_ ,” Sam says, in that same awed tone. Then he blinks and looks up, sees Dean watching. “I mean, _real_ fireflies,” he adds as explanation, pointedly nonchalant, trying and failing to play it cool.

“As opposed to all those fake ones,” Dean mumbles to himself as he turns back to the lock. If Sam hears, he doesn't reply.

Dean actually smiles a little at the satisfying _snick_ and turn of the lock when he successfully picks it and pops it open. He stands to uncoil the chain and opens the gate. “You ready to go?” he asks, as a formality. Sam has yet to hold up Dean's pace even once, dutifully keeping up without complaint no matter what they face. It's the one trait about Sam that Dean's really grateful for; the boy talks too much—too many questions and snarky observations—but he's both tenacious and obedient.

“Yeah,” the teen nods, letting his arms fall back to his sides. He takes a few lingering looks around though, like he's trying to memorize it. Dean leans his back against the fence and even waits a little bit, giving the boy a few seconds.

He thinks about Jo in those few seconds, feeling that internal throbbing wound everpresent, knowing she's gone forever. He doesn't think it'll ever stop hurting this time, but he's not about to let himself screw up her dying wish. Jo looked at Sam and saw the key to saving humanity; Dean looks and sees only a scrawny teen, but he tries to see what she did. She said to save this boy, and he will.

Dean carefully takes those feelings and folds them up tight, puts them in a little box and locks the lid. Mourning is something he's done before, maybe all his life, and he knows how to compartmentalize. He can't afford to be distracted on this job. There's a time and a place for feelings and this isn't it, so he pushes his shoulders back and holds his head high, no trace of grief in his demeanor.

“Alright,” Dean comments when Sam has already spun around five times, “Get the lead out, kid.”

Sam turns with a confused look, eyebrows scrunched beneath his long hair, “Get the lead out of what?”

Dean makes a face and rolls his eyes, “Just come on.”

He re-locks the gate behind them before turning to begin their expedition through Lincoln. They're approaching the town from a higher elevation so they can see the stretch of rooftops and chimneys and overgrown trees. In the distance there's a pillar of diffuse gray smoke. Sam draws up short at Dean's side, eyes scanning the horizon, noting the smoke.

“That your friend?”

“Sure as hell better be,” Dean grumbles as they make their way down from the water tower into the beginnings of a suburb.

“So where do you usually meet him?” Sam asks conversationally, and he's definitely back into his talkative mood. The forest must've cheered him up or something; the kid had been decidedly somber when they first set off that morning.

“Different places,” Dean answers vaguely, trying to keep up the illusion that he knows where he's going.

Sam's sharp eyes see right through him. A little smirk curls onto the boy's lips, “You've never even been here before, have you?”

“Yeah, I have,” Dean defends, apparently still unconvincing because Sam's brows curl skeptically. They have to jump down a sharp drop through a broken fence into what was once somebody's backyard. Now it's just overgrown grass and a busted old shed. When they've both landed safely on their feet Dean admits, “Once. 'Bout a year ago.”

“Right,” The boy chuckles, shaking his head at the long swaying weeds as they walk through the backyard and approach the house its attached to.

Dean stops Sam just in time, tight grip on the top of the boy's backpack, right at his nape. Sam does stop, a little awkwardly from the sudden tug, shooting a confused and peeved expression over his shoulder that quickly drops when he takes in Dean's face. Sam goes on alert, eyes scanning, but there's nothing to see.

Dean releases his backpack and taps his ear pointedly before motioning towards the busted up shed they're approaching. Sam's brow creases and he tilts his head in this silly way, almost like a puppy perking up an ear. Dean sees the moment the kid hears the raspy breathing and low clicks, sees his hazel eyes widen.

Dean's about to pull a shiv from his bag when he notices an old pipe lying in the long grass. He stoops to grab it, testing it's weight in his hands. It's firm and heavy, minimal rust, a little shorter than a baseball bat, good enough for a quite a few solid hits. He signals, _'stop'_ to Sam, indicating the boy should hold his position before he tiptoes to the shed, walking silently down a few short, concrete steps and slowly towards the open doorway.

The clicker stands inside, probably taking shade from the sun, or maybe the cold and rain of the day before. It's twitching slightly, head down as it's throaty clicks stutter from a lipless face. Dean' edging close enough to swing the pipe when a snap of fingers sounds off, loud enough in this small space to reach both Dean and the monster in front of him. The clicker lifts its head and snarls, clicking with purpose now as it scans the space in front of it.

Dean turns furious eyes back to Sam only to find the boy with worry written across his face, pointing over Dean's head.

Dean turns and sees a second clicker, now wandering around from the far side of the house, snapping at the air curiously as it stumbles forward on bare, bloodstained feet.

Dean's chest goes cold and he takes a few necessary steps back from the one in front of him, re-evaluating his approach. The clicker in the shed is mostly inactive, waking slowly from the trance-like sleep these things sometimes go into. But the one walking towards him is getting closer, snarling and seeking out prey; he knows he doesn't have much time to think it out. If that one get's too close, the one in the shed will hear it and wake up, and Dean really doesn't like his odds against two of these things at once. He decides to just go for it, lifting the pipe and going for the clicker walking towards him; he takes slow steps away from the shed to meet it halfway. He's less than two feet from the thing, no time left to hesitate, and Dean swings the heavy pipe delivering a massive hit to the face that has the infected staggering with a pained scream. The one behind him, in the shed, screeches and starts stumbling forward, hands grasping at the air.

Dean grunts from the exertion of hitting the one in front of him again, chunks of fungus growths flying through the air. One more hit and the thing finally goes down, but the one behind him is closing in fast.

Something soars through the air, hitting the clicker in the face with a sound of breaking glass. The monster cries out, stunned, giving Dean the extra second he needs to turn and lift the pipe again, decommissioning the infected with two powerful hits to the back of the head. As soon as he's sure the thing is dead, he looks back up at Sam, the boy walking hesitantly towards him.

“That was you?” Dean asks breathless, looking back at the scatter of broken dark brown glass on the concrete.

“Yeah,” Sam nods, feigning confidence, but Dean can see the boy's not sure how his actions will be received. “Threw a bottle.”

Dean has so far told the kid to stay out of the way in any kind of violent confrontation, to just hide and wait for Dean to take care of it. But Sam's not a baby, and despite obviously being a bit of a novice, the boy's very clever—perhaps even clever enough to make up for his lack of experience. Dean decides right then that if they're going to be making this trip to Wyoming together, they'll need to trust that they have each other's backs. He wouldn't give Sam a gun and count on him in the middle of a fire fight, but having him be proactive in helping Dean stay alive seems safe enough.

“Thanks,” Dean says, and Sam's eyes widen in disbelief; almost like he's not sure it isn't a joke, like Dean might turn around and scold him any second.

“Uh… yeah. Yeah, sure,” Sam finally stutters out, painfully transparent each time he tries to play it casual, “No problem.”

The house behind them is unlocked and Dean decides to go in, running short of food and ammo. They might find a few supplies here or there. Even though the house is silent, no raspy breathing or shuffling steps, Dean still walks in cautiously. He doesn't have to tell Sam to keep close, the boy automatically shadowing him.

Dean checks the corners and rooms as they walk through, poking at things that might be useful, putting them into his backpack if they are. He finds a pair of pliers in a kitchen drawer, an unlabeled can at the back of the pantry that doesn't feel rotted out, a craft knife that could be turned into a useful shank in a kid's bedroom. When it's clear that the silence isn't a coincidence, the house truly is empty, Sam stops following him so closely. The boy never wanders far, but he'll linger in rooms longer than Dean, stopping to look at posters and knick-knacks inquisitively.

As they walk through the house, Dean hears a soft, raspy blowing sound. He turns to investigate only to find that the sound is coming from Sam. The boy isn't paying Dean any mind, curiously inspecting the photos lined up on the mantle, lips pursed as he blows in sharp, rhythmic bursts.

“The hell are you doing?” Dean asks and Sam whips around, shoulders dropping when it's clear Dean's not angry.

“Um,” Sam stalls, biting his lip and scratching at his thick, floppy hair. He looks away before answering, “Learning to whistle?” voice so uncertain it comes out as a question.

Dean levels the boy with a deadpan expression. “You don'know how to whistle?”

Sam lets his hand drop from his hair, smacking down against his thigh huffily, “Does it sound like I know how to whistle?”

Dean closes his eyes and shakes his head minutely, internally reminding himself that all teenagers are annoying, moody bitches and he shouldn't snap at the kid. “Okay, so why are you learning to whistle _now_?”

Sam turns away to face the mantle, though there can't be enough pictures there to hold his attention this long. “Outside,” the boy answers. “With the—the clicker.”

Dean waits but Sam doesn't elaborate, seemingly lost for words. “Yeah?” Dean prompts.

Sam's shoulders are tight and he still doesn't turn to face him, “Birds sing all the time and the clickers don't really seem to care. But I had to snap my fingers, you know… to get your attention.”

“Right…” Dean drawls, head lifting in a nod of understanding. “Well, pro tip, curl your tongue up a little, and blow softly.”

Sam finally turns to look at Dean again, brow creased as he moves his mouth and blows again. All that comes out is the wooshing sound of air.

“You'll get the hang of it,” Dean assures before heading on through the rest of the house.

They leave a few minutes later after they've given the place a good once over for supplies. There's a few blocks of suburbs, houses with unruly, overgrown yards and busted old boats, bikes, cars. They're quiet and mostly stay out of the houses; there're too many blind spots and too few escape paths. Whatever meager supplies he might gather aren't worth it. He's better off waiting until he's got Bobby as backup to scavenge. When they approach main street, there's a barricade fence that's locked from the other side with a thick metal bar through the handles. There's no razor wire, so it'd be climbable, if only it wasn't more than ten feet high with the top half reinforced by smooth, handhold-less wooden planks rather than chainlink.

Dean's just considering how long it'd take him to build something for them to climb, how long until the sun fully sets, how much noise it'd make to construct it, how fucking _exhausted_ he is when Sam pipes up.

“Boost me over,” The boy says, tightening his backpack straps.

Dean frowns hard, “What? _No,”_ he grunts, immediately averse to separating.

“Well _I_ can't lift _you_. You got a better plan?” The boy asks eyebrows high. When Dean can't reply, well aware that Sam's suggestion makes sense, the teen nods, “That's what I thought. So come on. Boost me up.”

Dean sighs heavily through his nose and lifts a hand to point at the boy, “You don't do you anything but unlock the gate.”

“Fine,” Sam agrees, way too reasonable and patient. It's almost as annoying as if he was acting immature instead.

Dean leans his back against the barricade and laces his hands together. “Okay, gimme your foot,” He says.

“What, no running start?” Sam asks as he walks closer, then he freezes in his tracks and his face drains of blood. “Shit, I-I didn't—”

“Gimme your foot,” Dean orders, eyes kept to the ground, emotions kept strictly in check.

Sam doesn't say anything else, just puts his left foot into Dean's hands and uses him as a step. Dean slowly stands from his slight squat, Sam's other foot trying to find purchase against the fence. The boy's pretty big for a sixteen year old, nearly as tall as Dean and it doesn't take much for him to reach the top. Sam doesn't quite have the upper body strength to pull himself up from his hands alone, so Dean helps, grabs onto the kid's calf with one hand and presses up under his heel with the other. Once Sam's bent over the fence at the waist, he's got his grace back, easily swinging a leg over and landing on the other side.

Sam doesn't take a single step before pulling the metal bar out of the fence, and Dean can't help appreciating the boy's absolute obedience. Dean never would've been able to follow a stranger the way Sam is following him, only ever had that kind of blind faith in his father and lost that the day John Winchester died. Sam understands the imperative of doing everything Dean says down to the letter, and each time he follows orders even closer than Dean expected, his trust in the teen grows.

They're on Main Street now, surrounded on both sides by empty store fronts with broken windows and bare shelves. Dean leads them in the direction of the smoke they saw, examining the angle of the sun in the sky, his internal clock ticking down the scant few hours until dark. They can't afford to linger.

They pass something like an overgrown little junkyard attached to an auto-body place, and it takes Dean a few strides to realize that Sam has stopped. He looks back to see the boy with one hand lifted, his fingers hooked through the chainlink fence, staring in.

“Hey, look,” Sam says with a laugh vibrating his voice, barely loud enough for Dean to hear, “ _Gnomes_.”

Dean glances and spots the weird little figurines still perched in the wild grass, colors faded on their stupid clothes and stupider hats, but their smug little smiles as off-putting as ever. They look like the dwarfs from _Snow White_ , only weirder. “Hi-ho, hi-ho,” Dean deadpans but Sam just gives him a confused look, like he's not sure Dean is totally sane.

“It's from this—” Dean starts, Sam's skeptical expression doesn't shift. Dean rolls his eyes, “Nevermind. Yeah, gnomes. So what?”

Sam looks back into the junkyard, a cautious smile on his lips, “Never actually saw one for real. I thought it was just a legend, people putting these things in their yards.”

Dean looks down the street towards the sun, hovering lower and lower in the sky, the tick of his mental clock ringing between his ears. He's just about to tell the kid to keep moving when Sam speaks.

“There was this girl… She had an art book filled with these. I always thought they were kinda creepy, but she loved them. She thought their little faces and pointy hats were so cute,” The kid chuckles to himself.

Dean takes once last fretful glance at the sun but then walks five paces back to Sam, turning to look through the fence more clearly at the statues littered around. Most of them are chipped, little spots of pale clay revealed beneath painted smiles and tacky colored clothes. Dean cuts his eyes to the side surreptitiously and sees the poignant nostalgia on Sam's face, enough sorrow in his smile that Dean doesn't need to ask what happened to the girl.

“Want one to take with you?” Dean asks as a joke. The gnomes are clearly too big to fit in a backpack.

Sam snorts an unexpected laugh, ducking his head at the unflattering sound it makes, “Yeah, that's just what I need.” He shakes his head and finally lowers his hand from the chainlink wistfully, fingers catching on the diamond openings and rattling the fence. “I think I'm solid for souvenirs at the moment, thanks.”

Dean nods and starts walking again, a little relieved Sam's not the type to want a shoulder to cry on or something. He doesn't need to look back, hears Sam's footsteps fall right in line behind him.

A half hour later they're coming up on the end of the street where the northern barricade blocks them in. Dean can see the smoke pillar looming over the next few rows of roofs. There's gotta be some kind of path Bobby uses to scavenge neighborhoods, they've just got to find it. Dean pulls out his Colt again as they start venturing into the stores, searching for a back door or an alleyway that might lead them out of the barricaded zone.

“ _No way!”_ Sam exclaims, rushing past Dean's shoulder on their way into an old pizzeria and running up to a dusty old arcade machine.

“Hey!” Dean scolds, but Sam isn't paying him a lick of attention. So much for trusting the kid, but then Dean hasn't been issuing many orders the last little while.

“I can't believe it,” Sam mutters. “Of course this would be here.”

Dean checks the corners with his gun lifted, peeking into the kitchen and around the empty dining room, but it's dead quiet. He drops his aim and walks up to the kid, squinting as he examines the machine. Sam's hands are resting almost hopefully on the joysticks but without power this thing is just a fancy box.

“What, you're favorite game?” Dean asks, a flash of old, gray memories surfacing. Handfuls of clinking quarters and the smell of corn syrup sodas, catchy themes and _pewpews_ stuck in his ears, flashing lights and _'high score!'_ behind his eyelids even hours after he got back home. A little boy waiting for him, a wide bucktoothed grin when Dean gave him the rainbow slinky he won with hundreds of meticulously saved tickets.

“Not quite,” Sam answers, pressing the buttons even though he's gotta know it won't do a damn thing. “That girl, my friend. This was her favorite.”

This machine says _Demon Hunter_ on the side and shows two girls, one with thick braided cornrows and the other with long, flowing blond hair. They've got massively oversized weapons in their hands, and based on their artistically thin bodies they'd be completely useless in a real fight. But the curves on them are plenty easy on the eyes, that's for sure.

This is the second time Sam's brought this girl up and Dean considers asking, but then decides he'd rather not open that door if he can avoid it. Dean doesn't reply but as he's learning, Sam doesn't always take that as a cue to stop talking.

“She knew _everything_ about this game,” The teen says, twisting the joy sticks and then bending to press bright orange change return slots. “Apparently, there's this character called Angel Blades who'd… jeez, what was it?” he trails as he stands again, hands back to the controls but eyes closed, head tipped back. “She'd punch a hole through your stomach before kicking your head off. Totally badass.”

Dean's mouth turns down at the corners, intrigued and he gives the art along the side another inspection, looking at the sinister black and red demons and the serious, ass-kicking face the heroine's sporting.

“I wish I could play it,” Sam whispers, shoulders slumping as he stares at the blank screen.

Dean licks his bottom lip, checks the level of the sunlight through the window, a steady tick-tock in his head. Move, move, move, it says.

“I did,” Dean's mouth admits quietly. “Back in the day.”

Sam's head whips around so quick it's comical, mouth open, “You're shitting me.”

Dean shakes his head, walking around to see the art panel on the other side, “Nope. Once upon a time. Arcades were cheap fun and they were all over. I'd go after school, sink a few bucks into the change machine and spend hours killing zombies and shit.” His eyebrows quirk at the irony, “And my teachers always said math was the skill I'd need as a grown up.”

Sam grins and shakes his head, “Oh man. I'm so fucking jealous. What was it like?”

Dean frowns, “What'd'you mean?”

“Playing in an _arcade_ , Dean,” Sam clarifies impatiently. “Playing tons of light up games with your friends. Did you win?”

Dean knows he tried two-player games, knows he had friends that went with him, but he doesn't remember them. He thinks of the rainbow slinky again. “Yeah,” He answers with a shrug, “All the time. You'd get prizes if you won enough.”

“Yeah?” Sam prompts, turning his back to the arcade console and half-sitting against it, taking some weight off his feet. “Like what?”

“I dunno,” Dean shakes his head, walking away, “Kid toys. Teddy bears and toy cars and shit. Now come on, the sun ain't gonna wait for your trip down memory lane.”

Sam stays to press the buttons a few more times but meets Dean at the back door, leading into a narrow alley. They keep walking, weaving through the stores and backstreets, Dean keeping his eyes peeled for signs of Bobby's presence. He hasn't seen much yet and there's a cruel, derisive whisper in the back of his mind saying, _'he could be dead.'_

He's fortunately, _explosively_ , proven wrong down the next shadowed side street. A clicker turns the corner coming towards them and both Sam and Dean freeze in their tracks, only to be nearly blown of their feet in the next second as a wave of force and heat hits them, a deafening boom shaking the masonry of the abandoned buildings.

“Fuck!” Sam near shouts, crouching down against the brick wall to his right with his arms crossed over his head for protection.

Dean had his arm up on reflex to cover his eyes and when he lowers it, he finds the clicker nearly dead on the ground, legs blown off and blood gushing out so fast it'll be a matter of seconds before it's all the way there. He looks closer and sees a smoking old tin can and little flaming chunks of metal scattered across the concrete. Dean is breathing hard as he steps closer, eyes scanning, skipping over the feebly twitching infected on the ground.

“A freakin' _bomb_ ,” Dean mutters to himself as he spots the thin, shimmer of a trip wire. “Really, Bobby?” After a few more seconds looking around, Dean turns to grab Sam but sees the kid still crouched down, only now lowering his shaking arms. “Hey,” Dean says, “Come on, it's alright. It's over.”

Sam steadies himself against the brick wall, relying on it to get back to his feet. “What,” he gasps thinly, _“_ in the _hell_ , was that?”

“Bobby's handiwork,” Dean answers, motioning _'go'_ over his shoulder out of habit. “C'mere.”

Sam approaches but stays behind Dean, “Your friend made that?”

“Yeah,” Dean nods, pointing out the evidence, the tin can and the trip wire, the gunpowder residue and scent, the flaming hot nails. “See that? This was a tripwire trap.”

Sam scoffs, “This Bobby guy a bit paranoid, maybe?” he asks, voice cracking high with stress.

“That's putting it mildly,” Dean mutters in reply, remembering his Uncle Bobby's tin-foil hat conspiracies about monsters and ghosts. There was a reason the old drunk lived alone in a barely functioning scrap yard long before the apocalypse. “Least we know we're going the right way.”

Dean steps over the messy corpse and looks down the longer alleyway. This one looks like a good lead, long enough that he can't see the end but cleaner than the others they've come across.

“Aren't bombs pretty dangerous?” Sam asks. “What if someone hits one by accident?”

“Nobody lives here but Bobby as far as I know,” Dean answers, lifting his gun to aim into every corner and open doorway they pass.

“Alright,” Sam says decisively, “What's the deal? I mean, this guy's an _'old family friend,'_ but he lives alone in a ghost town cooking up explosives _by himself_? Is this guy like, crazy or something?”

Dean's still checking the way forward, holds in a laugh but doesn't reply.

A hand on his shoulder draws him up short, spinning Dean around to see Sam's pensive face, “Dean, _talk to me._ What're we walking into here?”

Dean shakes off Sam's hand but gives one short nod, looking down to avoid the kid's earnestly concerned face, “Yeah, Bobby's a few aces short of a deck. But he's smart, helps us smuggle stuff back into the QZ—” Dean realizes the second the words are out that there's no _us_ anymore, but speeds past it before Sam can say anything. “Bobby's good at findin' things, fixin' things. And I knew 'im, back before the infection.”

Sam's eyebrows lift in surprise, “So a really old friend. From school?”

Dean shakes his head, “No, he was my dad's friend,” he explains curtly. “Look, I get it. You don't trust me, and you wanna make sure I'm not taking you someplace—”

“That's not it,” Sam interrupts. “I trust you,” he says with brazen sincerity, “I don't trust _Bobby._ ”

Dean blinks and for the umpteenth time finds himself mystified by Sam's naive, unabashed honesty. He's seen it so many times now, he's losing the right to be surprised by it—part of him keeps waiting for the other shoe, the knife to the back, for this kid to be just like everyone else, but he's starting to accept that Sam is just… _different._

“So _you_ trust this guy?” Sam asks deliberately, hazel irises caught in the golden evening sunlight and melting the colors all together. Sam's willing to trust Bobby if Dean vouches for him

Dean meets the boy's gaze for this, not a coward where it comes to being a man of his word. “Yeah, I do,” Dean answers honestly. Bobby's screws haven't been tightened since the new millennium and he's a crotchety old bastard for sure, but Dean would trust the man with his life and he knows he can trust him with Sam's.

Sam reads Dean's eyes for a few seconds longer before he nods, looks down at his sneakers. “Then lead the way,” The teen says, jerking his chin to motion the rest of the alley, “Let's hope we don't blow up trying to find him.”

Dean claps the kid on the shoulder and guides him into walking, side by side now that the alley's wide enough, “Just watch your step and we'll be fine.”

Twenty more minutes and the sunlight is a dangerously rich copper, small fluffy clouds floating overhead turned pink and lavender. They've got another hour, 90 minutes if they push it to the limit, before they're sitting ducks in the pitch black of an unfamiliar environment. They come across another tripwire bomb and they duck under rather than disarming it. Sam won't follow until Dean is through safely and the teen is twitchy when it's his turn, nearly crawls on his belly even though a low crouch would be enough.

Finally, just when Dean's mental clock starts telling him it's time to bunker down instead of exploring further, they find a white delivery van blocking off the rest of the alley with the words _'NO TRESPASSERS'_ spraypainted in huge letters and underlined methodically. Beneath the sign lies a pile of three dead infected, runners, with arrows sticking out of their rotting corpses.

Sam's nose is scrunched at the smell, eyes taking in the grim scene with a mixture of disgust and pity. “So, Bobby thinks he's a medieval archer?” he asks mockingly.

“Hey, don't knock it. It's quick, quiet, and deadly. Smarter than popping off a shot and attracting a crowd.” Dean talks over his shoulder, walking around the big truck, head back to look above it and he spots the corner of some kind of chair—a lookout spot. There's gotta be a way up, and Bobby's not as spry as a spring chicken these days. Dean feels some of the tension in his chest release when he finds a ladder half hidden in the darkness beneath the delivery truck. They can't be far now and he's confident he can get them to Bobby's safe house before night sets in.

Dean and Sam work together to drag the heavy ladder out, metal scrapping against cracked blacktop, and climb it one after another. They pull the ladder up after them and lay it out on the roof of the truck to keep anything from following them. The chair Dean saw from the ground is a sagging old armchair with a worn in ass-shaped dip in the seat. There's a bow and a handful of arrows beside it. Dean picks it up, figures Bobby won't mind as long as he doesn't break it. He tests the tension of the string part.

It's a compound bow, metal and camo-colored, the kind of shit real hunters use out in the forest. It's got wheels at the tips and more strings and moving pieces than Dean was expecting. He squints as he fiddles with it.

“I could use it,” Sam pipes up, and Dean lifts his head.

The kid is standing there with his hands on his backpack straps, optimism thinly covered with aplomb.

“Yeah,” Dean drawls dismissively, “How 'bout we just leave the deadly weapon stuff to me, huh?” he finishes with a quick, fake flash of a smile. He turns away to to keep walking along the top of the semi, leading to a section of roof they can reach with a wooden plank.

“But we could both be armed,” Sam tries again, jogging to catch up to Dean's side. “Cover each other. I'm a good shot with that thing.”

Dean turns long enough to frown at the boy's eagerness with no small amount of condescension. He pulls the flashlight off the strap of his backpack and hands it over. Sam takes it, baffled.

“You man the flashlight and that switchblade of yours, alright?” Dean says, turns his back and keeps walking. He doesn't get far enough to miss the annoyed sound Sam makes behind him.

They climb a fire ladder up to the roof of one of the shops facing Main Street and at this elevation, they can get the lay of the land again. The smoke is only a few buildings over and the sun's bottom edge is a still a half hour away from kissing the horizon. Dean can see a clear path leading to where Bobby must be, there's another wooden plank across to the next rooftop and more spray painted messages warning away the ill-intentioned.

After they make their way across, there's a ladder leading back down to the ground, more alleys but these ones conspicuously barricaded off with junker cars and old barbed wire—Bobby's work, not the government quarantine gates they saw earlier. Before Dean can start down the ladder, Sam blows a whoosh of air. It hits Dean in the face and he flinches from the smell of unbrushed teeth with a lingering hint of pears.

He opens his mouth to make a crack about poison gas when Sam points down over the edge. There's a clicker idling against the thick layer of untamed ivy overtaking most of the opposite wall, blending into the leaves with it's waxy jaundiced skin and the orange-green fungal plates where a face should be.

Dean nods to Sam in appreciation, mentally noting the kids very sharp eyes. He lifts the bow and pulls out an arrow, “Let's give this puppy a whirl, huh?” he whispers conspiratorially.

He aims like he thinks he should, trying to remember what he'd learned from practicing archery in PE back at Southwest Middle School when he lived in Kansas. He remembers Bobby had one of these back in Sioux Falls, remembers being eleven and begging to use it. Bobby offered to teach him but Mom had emphatically refused, telling Dean that weapons were not toys. She never new that later, Dad promised to teach him bow hunting on his next summer break. By the next summer, Dean didn't have a mom to worry about him, just one more of his Dad's broken promises to heap on the pile. He struggles a little with the arrow, trying to balance it on his finger like Robin Hood and keep it steady at the same time.

“It's like watching a monkey stack blocks,” Sam mutters under his breath before shoving the thick end of the flashlight into his front jeans pocket and reaching forward to knock the arrow on the string and line it up with the sights.

“I got it,” Dean argues, a little petulant. He's a well-trained smuggler and he knows how to hunt, goddammit.

“Clearly,” Sam snipes.

Dean gives the kid a sour look before aiming the bow and pulling back the string. The tension is so high he grunts from the exertion it takes. Dean concentrates, blows to empty his lungs and still his body, narrows his eyes down the sights, thinks of his Colt as he adjusts his aim and then lets the arrow fly.

It strikes the clicker through the ear, or where an ear might've once been, and the thing doesn't even have time to screech about it before it hits the ground like a lead weight.

“Holy shit,” Sam grins. “Color me impressed.”

“Could a monkey with blocks do that?” Dean boasts a bit, shoulders back and head held high with pride. He honestly hadn't been sure he'd make the shot, but he sure as hell wouldn't have lived it down if he hadn't.

“Monkeys can be pretty smart,” Sam shrugs carelessly, but just when Dean's about to think the kid's really brushing him off, Sam shoots him a millisecond smile full of mischief. “We going or what?”

“So _now_ , you're in a rush,” Dean comments as he hitches the bow onto his backpack, “No more arcade games you wanna stop and tell stories about.”

Sam doesn't look the least offended, “Just lead the way, Legolas.”

“Oh good,” Dean grunts on an exhale, swinging down onto the ladder and starting his descent. “You do get some references.”

“You're kind of an asshole, you know that?” Sam adds, probably only brave enough to say it since he's safely out of Dean's reach for the moment.

“It's been said,” Dean shrugs as he jumps the last few rungs and lands on his aching feet. Fuck, he needs to get these boots off soon. “Come on down,” Dean orders as he takes his Colt out again, trusting it more for close encounters, sweeping his probing gaze through the lengthening shadows. He can smell the woodfire now, the taste of cedar in the air. Just a little farther.

They walk down a blocked off alleyway, running into a few more tripwire traps and two more clickers. But now it's clear that the infected didn't make it over Bobby's barricades. Close up, Dean can see their ankles are broken, and one of them is literally chained up with a choke collar to a telephone pole. These are part of Bobby's defense.

Sam notices too and they share a look, the teen's eyes showing some worry and doubt. But surprisingly, he doesn't say a word, apparently still committed to trusting Dean's judgment. Dean almost feels bad, wishes the kid had someone—anyone—better to trust.

“So, listen,” Dean speaks softly as they keep walking, “Bobby ain't exactly… _welcoming_ of strangers, if you catch my drift. So when we get there, you let me do the talkin'. Clear?”

“Crystal,” Sam agrees too easily. “Believe me, if I can avoid a conversation with this guy? I will. And by the way, how are you so sure he'll just give us a car? I mean, are we gonna pay him or somethin'?”

Dean laughs through his nose, “No. Bobby owes me. He'll do it. He's not a bad guy, just…he needs some time to warm up to you is all.”

Sam makes a face of sarcastic acquiescence, clearly not looking to have his mind changed. Dean doesn't bother talking up Bobby any further. It's not like he's really close to the old guy anymore, stopped calling him _'uncle'_ years ago. He doesn't believe that someone like Bobby could ever be straight up dangerous, not to Dean, but they're not close enough for him to talk up the old man's personality.

“Alright,” Dean says when they come up to the only sturdy, unblocked door, spray painted with _'UNINVITED STAY OUT.'_ “We're real close. Through here, another street or two and that'll be it.” Dean turns to look over his shoulder and sees the kid toeing at an old, cracked cellphone on the ground.

“Hey!” Dean says gruffly and Sam snaps to attention, right at Dean's back in less than five seconds. “Stay close,” he orders and Sam nods promptly, easily corrected.

Dean is in the middle of rolling his eyes, thinking absently that hanging around with a teenager is making his eyes roll in his head more than sex has in years, when a sudden tug catches him off guard. Dean can't even blink before his feet have left the ground and he's flying forward, his joints pulling painfully and jerking to a stop. He's hanging, upside down, backpack pulling relentlessly on his shoulders, ankle burning from supporting all of his weight and the heavy duty rope cutting into his skin like it's made of spun metal.

“Dean!” Sam cries out, sprinting in after him. “Here, I got you,” he says, hands latching onto Dean's chest to stop his erratic swinging.

“Goddammit Bobby,” Dean growls, jaw clenched with pain.

“Another trap?” Sam asks, looking around the room, eyes up to the ceiling and then searching through the wreckage of the room they're in. It looks like a warehouse except where there might've once been doors, there are only wide open archways to the street leaving them vulnerable and exposed.

“Yeah,” Dean answers, looking around too, disoriented by being upside down, blood rushing hot to his head making his scalp feel tight.

“Okay,” Sam breathes absently, eyes following the rope from Dean's ankle to the mechanism, backing away and turning in a circle as he gets his bearings. “Okay, yeah. I see how it works. This fridge must be the counterweight. Cutting this rope should bring you down.”

“Whatever,” Dean replies abrupt and waspish, “Just do it! Fuck this hurts…”

“I'm on it,” Sam calls, running over to a rusted out old fridge, tied up expertly. It's on a table, the rope above it higher than Sam can reach from the ground. Dean watches the boy drag over a nearby crate and climb up, jumping and pulling himself on top of the fridge.

Sam's got his switchblade out, not the greatest for cutting, especially against a rope this thick, but it'll get the job done. Dean's just about to think this'll only be a minor setback when he hears a sound that makes his blood turn to ice in his veins.

There's no mistaking the unhinged wailing and wet hacking clicks of infected.

“Oh shit,” Dean gasps to himself, “Sam! Hurry!”

The boy is hacking away at the rope as hard and fast as he can. “You—said—my—name,” The words coming between heaving breaths.

“Just cut the damn rope!” Dean screams, voice going high and breaking with panic. He's strung up like a fucking pinata for the clickers to claw out his innards. And if he dies here, no way can Sam fight his way out of an infected mob on his own. He's watching Jo's dying wish circle the drain.

“I am!” Sam shouts back hotly.

“Oh Christ,” Dean says when he sees them coming, too many. Sam's not gonna get him down before they're here. He pulls his gun from his waistband, and tries to aim, letting out a frustrated, frantic sound. He's swaying too much, his feet not planted, his arms not in the right position. He can't shoot like this! He's as likely to hit the kid as the infected.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Sam is shouting, voice distorted with emotion, expression savage as he slashes at the rope with full swings of his arm.

Dean closes his eyes and takes in a breath. If he's gonna die—if _they're_ gonna die—it won't be because they gave up. Dean's teeth are bared, his whole body thrumming and time seeming to slow with the flood of adrenaline that races to his brain. An infected is coming right at him, a runner with deranged, ravenous eyes, bloody mouth stretching inhumanly wide.

Dean points and shoots, misses, and the recoil only makes him sway more. He aims again, no pause between his shots, sweating palms tight on his Colt's pearl grips. He squeezes the trigger again and this time, catches the bastard right in the eye. It drops.

There's no time to celebrate because there're more coming, half-naked runners, hungrily intent on Dean's hanging body, helpless meat on a hook.

“Anytime now!” Dean calls.

“I'm going—as fast as I can!” Sam shouts breathless.

Dean shoots over and over, misses about half his targets. Only one gets close enough to try for a bite, and Dean grapples with the thing. It's a female, and that's probably what saves him. She's small, weak, missing fingers, and Dean keeps her snapping jaws at bay, shooting her pointblank in the temple. He's on his second backup magazine, casings littering the concrete beneath him, when Sam starts cursing again.

“Shit, shit! Fuck, _hang on_!” Dean hears and he looks in time to see the fridge tipping precariously over the edge of the sagging, old table. Sam's clinging to the rope instead of cutting it, knows he's going down.

Dean yelps when the fridge crashes onto the floor, landing on its side, the rope yanking him even higher into the air. He feels a sharp pain of protest through his one good knee. Sam spills onto the ground but rolls up to his feet quick, staunchly concentrated on the rope, attacking it with single-minded vigor.

“Watch out!” Dean cries when he sees an infected turning to look at the kid. Dean's now too high in the air to grab and Sam's the easier target.

The kid whips his head around at Dean's yell and does the worst thing he could—freezes in place like a startled deer, knife poised against the rope and face blank with terror as he stares down a clicker, less than three feet away and closing in.

Dean doesn't have even a millisecond to think, just pulls the trigger over and over. The deafening crack of gunfire at least gets the kid to duck down on instinct. Somehow, by the dumbest of luck, Dean's bullets meet their mark, slowing the clicker with two chest hits and downing it for good with a final shot through the brain. Sam's clearly shaken getting back to the rope, pace slowed but persistent.

There are more infected coming. Dean can't tell how many. His ears are good, his strongest sense, and he can tell from the cacophony of baying and babbling that he and Sam are attracting a larger crowd. They're gonna be swarmed.

“Almost!” Sam calls over the sound of Dean firing, keeping the encroaching monsters off of the kid's back. Dean's on his last accessible magazine, the rest of his ammo buried in his backpack, and he feels the pang of imminent defeat as he counts down his last bullets.

Seven, six, five, four, _three_ —

Dean falls too fast to properly catch himself, but the body of the female infected that tried to bite him softens his landing. Stunned and winded, he blinks dazedly in the glaring crimson blush of sunset, disoriented again by the sudden change in perspective. The next thing he knows is struggling to hold off the snarling gape of a hungry mouth, can't even see the rest of the infected that's on top of him—just the rotted, bloody teeth and gums, the swollen lashing tongue, the putrid smell of death in the gluey drip of saliva.

Then the body above him goes slack, a machete chopped halfway through a face still twitching with a crazed expression, eyes still blinking. The blade pulls back and arcs down again, hacking through the infected's neck, and covering Dean's chest in a rush of warm blood. Someone kicks the body off him and a heavy hand yanks Dean up to his unsteady feet.

“Off your ass!” Bobby shouts through his gas mask and Dean is so relieved he feels faint, sure for half a heartbeat that he's dreaming. “Come on!” the old man orders, tugging Dean along and his body obeys even if his stupefied mind can't keep up.

“Sam!” Dean says, eyes searching wildly and he sees the boy pushed against the toppled fridge by a runner, hands around the monster's throat to hold it away.

He runs over and stomp kicks the thing hard in the ribs to drop it, aims his pistol and pulls the trigger, splattered red across the floor. Sam's eyes are the size of saucers, skin dripping with sweat, staring dumbfounded like Dean's the second-coming. Dean grabs his arm and drags Sam behind him, following after the flash of Bobby, out through an open archway into a street blocked off with big trailer trucks and barbed wire.

Bobby's got his own pistol out now, gunfire popping as he keeps the voracious hoard away. “There's too many!” Bobby shouts, still shooting even as he backpeddles, leading them through a narrow gap between the trucks.

Dean sprints, never letting go of Sam's forearm. He can't feel his body anymore, numb to his own burning lungs and aching joints. The infected are still pursuing them, and their carelessly loud running is only drawing more of the stragglers. The alley ahead is barricaded, but infected are trying to crawl over, enough of them piled up against the barrier that the ones at the top are able to pull themselves up.

“This way, come on!” Bobby guides them down a narrow gap between two buildings, towards a side door leading into one. He stops at the door, hand patting his pockets. “That damn key,” he grumbles.

“Behind you!” Sam says, and Dean pulls out his gun, two bullets left, felling the closest runner.

“Bobby!” Dean warns, the slide locked open when his Colt clicks empty.

“Got it!”

But it's too late, a runner is right on top of them, Sam lifting a forearm instinctively to block the coming blows. Dean pulls Sam hard and whips the kid behind him before he starts swinging his fists, feels the tell-tale crunch of a broken cheekbone.

“It's open, it's open!” Sam says. The teen's hands on Dean's shoulders pull him backwards through the door and Bobby slams it shut as soon as he's through.

“It's not secure here, keep moving,” The man barks, voice muffled through his mask, heading off down the aisles of a laundromat without a backward glance for Dean and Sam. They approach an open door on the opposite side but a clicker blocks the way forward, screeching loudly with it's arms spread wide and fingers curled into bloody claws. It's already heard them.

“Move, move,” Dean says, so breathless his voice comes out as little more than a hiss, pushing Sam ahead of him, towards Bobby. He grabs up a brick from the ground and runs at the infected with a throaty battle cry. He slams it into the wall and puts every ounce of force he can muster behind the swing of the brick into its face. He strikes it twice before the brick cracks, but the thing is staggered, blood streaming through slimy, cracked fungus.

Bobby is already out the door, and Sam's hand wraps around Dean's bicep, pulling him along.

They race down another alley, less infected than before, but still too many to take out. Bobby jumps up into the trailer of a truck through an open door on the side, red spray painted words on the white paneling blurring past Dean's eyes as he and Sam follow through the trailer and out the back end. They're in a blocked off backstreet, the big truck behind them, high brick walls on both sides, and a heavy duty door at the end. Bobby's far enough ahead that he's got it unlocked and open for them as they run for it, infected hot on their tails.

Dean pushes Sam through first.

As soon as they're both clear, Bobby slams the door and Dean presses back against it, bouncing with the enraged pounding of the monsters outside. Bobby slides heavy locks and latches into place, finishing it off with a steel bar the width of Dean's leg braced straight across the middle. The banging continues, but it's muted and the door doesn't so much as shimmy.

Dean folds in half, hands on his knees, sucking in agonizing lungfuls of air, vision blurring and nausea churning his stomach from the ferrous stench of blood on his clothes. It feels like his heart is inside his head, pounding and throbbing between his ears.

“Holy shit,” Sam breathes through little high-pitched, hitching gasps. “That was _close_.”

Dean closes his eyes, dizzy, telling himself not to pass out. He hears heavy bootsteps, Bobby walking towards the teen. He can only hear them distantly, like being underwater.

“So… um, thanks,” Sam says, a weak laugh breaking through, “You saved our asses.” There's a pause, the thick sound of swallowing. “I'm Sam.”

Then—

“Hey! What the fu— _Dean!”_ the kid shouts, and Dean's standing up straight, sees Bobby with an iron grip around the teen's skinny wrist. The man twists Sam's arm up behind him and slams him into the wall.

“Bobby,” Dean says, lungs too empty and useless for his voice to hold any clout.

“Let me go!” Sam bellows, fighting like a rat caught in a trap, artless and desperate for escape. Bobby's got cuffs around Sam's trapped wrist in one smooth move, closes the other end around a pipe protruding from the wall beside him. Sam doesn't stop fighting, rattling the cuffs with hard yanks and pained grunts as he tugs.

The old man turns back to Dean, ripping his gas mask off venomously and tossing it to the side before lifting his pistol to aim straight at Dean's chest. “Turn around and get on your knees,” he orders gruffly.

“Bobby, wait,” Dean repeats putting his hands up to signal that he's not a threat.

“On your knees!” Bobby roars, “ _Now!”_

“Alright!” Dean retorts angrily as he obeys, turning and dropping to his sore knees on the unforgiving tile floor, hands up on either side of his head. “Just take it easy.”

“Don't tell me what to do, boy,” Bobby snaps, hand pulling down the back of Dean's collar to look at his exposed skin, the pistol held near his ear making him itch. “You got any bites?” Bobby demands.

“No,” Dean answers emphatically gruff.

“Anything sproutin'?” Bobby continues, manhandling Dean by his backpack straps to give him a thorough once over.

“No goddammit, I'm clean!” Dean insists. “Bobby, just calm down for a fuckin' second, would'ya?”

“Calm?” The man asks in a scoff, “If I see so much as a twitch—”

His sentence is cut off with a cry and Dean turns to see Sam swinging the pipe, now dislodged from the wall, with enraged intensity, striking Bobby's forearm as the man attempts to block. Sam's got the pipe lifted for another swing but Dean jumps to his feet and intercepts it. He catches the pipe as it swings down, surprised by the force behind it, enough to rattle his bones.

“Sam!” Dean says urgently, “Stop it—” Then again, louder when the boy doesn't listen, eyes set on his target over Dean's shoulder. _“Stop it!”_ he shoves the kid backwards.

Sam stumbles back a step, throwing the pipe to the ground, red in the face and pissed to hell, eyes flicking from Dean to Bobby and back.

Dean has a palm up on either side of him, one towards the teen and one towards Bobby, he sighs when the aggression in the room drops and the brief skirmish is over. Dean glares darkly back at Bobby, “You done?”

The old man is holding his injured arm, looking nearly as furious. “Am _I_ done?” he spits, “ _You_ come into _my_ house, set off my traps, bring a goddamn mob down on _my_ head, and you have the _nerve_ to ask—”

“You handcuffed me!” Sam shouts, stepping forward purposefully and only Dean's wide palm on the boy's chest holds him back.

“The least of what I should'a done!” Bobby yells back, “I should'a left you for the clickers!”

“That's enough!” Dean bellows, cutting them both off. “Cool it, _both of you.”_

Sam's scowl doesn't look so puppyish and laughable now, but he scoffs and smartly backs off, arms crossed over his chest. Dean turns back to Bobby, trying to gear himself up to talk when it feels like he'll need an hour just to catch his damn breath.

“The hell are you doin' here, Dean?” Bobby asks, eyes flinty with anger, but no deadly intent.

Dean considers explaining in depth, mentally flinches away from the prospect of recounting what happened to Jo. “I'll cut to the chase,” he replies, finally able to slowly lower his hands now that neither of his companions are jumping for the other's throat, “I need a car. You're the only person I can come to—”

“Yeah,” Bobby agrees caustically, “And why do you think that is?”

Dean lets his shoulders drop, “'Cause you're the only bastard dumb enough to help me.” He offers a thin smile and tries to diffuse the situation.

Bobby is surly and serious, but he's not heartless. They're practically family, or they used to be, and it's been months since they met face to face. The grizzled man finally relaxes his stance as well, dropping his head to study the ground. “Ain't that the fuckin' truth,” Bobby mutters.

Willing to bet they're alright again, Dean offers out his hand. Bobby frowns at him for a moment longer, but his anger is bleeding over into annoyance. He takes Dean's hand roughly but shakes solid and life-affirming, glad they both made it through they're latest close call.

“Don't get too cozy,” Bobby tells him as he releases Dean's hand, “You're still on my shit list.” He turns then and sinks down onto a weathered stool and that's when Dean realizes they're in an old bar, stools lined up and shelves on the back wall where alcohol once sat. He's not surprised this is Bobby's safe house.

“So what's this about a car?” Bobby asks tiredly, wiping the sweat from his eyes with a calloused hand.

“We're tryin'ta get to Cas,” Dean answers, “Out in Wyoming. No way we're makin' that trek on foot.”

At the reminder of Dean's companion, Bobby looks over at the glowering teen again, Sam leaned back against the wall with his arms still crossed, handcuffs hanging limply from one wrist, watching them unblinking.

Bobby snorts dismissively, “The hell's gotten into you, Dean?” he asks, “Totin' around some scrawny kid named _'Sam'_ of all things. You feelin' alright?”

“What?” Dean snaps defensively, “Of course. I didn't pick his fuckin' name.”

Bobby just harrumphs, unimpressed, “You were saying?”

Dean closes his eyes and reminds himself that old people are crotchety and condescending by default, it's no use getting flustered over it. When he opens them again, he's back down to business, “A car, Bobby. That's all we need and we're outta your hair.”

“And what the hell makes you think I got one, huh?” Bobby retorts, “And even if I did, that don't mean I'd give it to you.”

“You owe me.”

Bobby laughs brusquely, “Not that much.”

“Actually, yeah,” Dean counters, voice deepening, lifting his gaze to stare down into the other man's eyes gamely, “That much.”

Bobby blinks, mouth twisting in thought and a flash of guilt across his face, both of them well aware of exactly how John Winchester died. Bobby turns away first, breaking eye contact, “That don't change the facts. I don't have a workin' car—”

“But we could get one, fix one up,” Dean interrupts.

Bobby pauses again, taken aback by Dean's vehemence. Finally he shakes his head again, “It won't be easy.”

Dean almost feels like laughing.

Nothing has ever been easy.

“Tell me what to do.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this isn't too much of a cliff hanger.
> 
> All comments and kudos are much appreciated and will be rewarded with cookies and vivid Sam/Dean dreams (in some alternate universe, I'm sure). XD
> 
> Thank you again for reading and I hope you stick around for more!
> 
> TBC


End file.
